


A Plague on Both Houses

by cthene



Series: Know Thyself [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 60,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthene/pseuds/cthene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weary of war and filled with cautious hope, Leia encounters her estranged son in a neutral, diplomatic setting.  Meanwhile, Kylo struggles to find his purpose in a time of chaos and uncertainty, and plots a middle path between the Darkness and the Light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The space station where the conference is being held is situated in the neutral Western Reaches, orbiting the uninhabited ice world of Othone. Ships dock on a wafer-thin platform jutting out from the side of the main structure, beneath an invisible energy dome that separates the artificial atmosphere from the vacuum of space. Leia disembarks from her shuttle, her skirts whispering over the boarding ramp. She hasn't had to dress up like this for anything in a while. She is wearing a long, grey gown, a gauzy grey cape drawn around her shoulders. Her hair is wrapped around her head in a double halo of braids and her earlobes are adorned with faceted lumps of hematite. She feels faintly ridiculous. What can appearances and courtly manners possibly matter now that they have entered such a savage age? She has tried all of these same tactics before. She has tried daring, and guile, and violence, and kindness. She has negotiated peaces and waged bloody war. And all her efforts have come to nothing. Whenever she thought matters couldn't possibly get any worse, they did, and now they are arrived at what might be the end of galactic civilization itself. She holds her head up high, though it is heavy with the knowledge that this is likely to be her last stand.

 

Poe is at the bottom of the ramp to greet her in his dark brown dress uniform, hands clasped behind his back like a counterweight, keeping his spine erect. “General,” he salutes her. She descends from the ramp and they walk together towards the entrance, a complement of guards falling into step behind them.

 

“How do I look?” she jokes, pursing her lips.

 

“Ma'am,” Poe flashes her a grin, “if it's not too bold of me to say, you look like a trillion credits.”

 

She smiles, or tries to. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

 

At the end of the walkway, they are greeted by men in grey uniforms who scan them before allowing them inside. They are ushered into a large, well-lit convention hall, already filled with representatives from both factions. When Leia appears in the doorway, members of the Resistance turn to salute her, while several members of the First Order try to surreptitiously gawk at her from over the rims of their drinks. Leia feels a kind of bemused detachment from everything– people's costumes and facial expressions, their mundane feelings of confusion and social awkwardness. The mild drunkenness that hangs like a pale fog in the Force around them. It's amazing to her what trivialities persist at the end of the world.

 

A place has been reserved for her at the head of a long banquet table. She takes a seat, and Poe takes the one to her right. There are already tall flutes of chilled blossom wine set in front of them. Poe eyes the drink suspiciously and Leia shakes her head. “Don't worry,” she says. “They didn't go to all this trouble just to poison us.”

 

“Ma'am, is that, uh–” Poe swallows. “One of those things you can sense?” He looks up from the drink. “Not that I'm doubting you,” he adds, quickly.

 

“You don't have to have any if you don't want,” says Leia, before taking a sip. “But I think it's probably fine.” The Force doesn't exactly allow one to sense things like poison, but it does allow one to sense ill intent. If Leia doesn't feel like explaining this, well– She doesn't feel like much. Her patience for plotting and intrigue is at an end. She is here to say her piece, and she is not going to spend the whole conference worrying about whether someone is contriving to assassinate her. She looks across the room at the door where they came in. _Always sit facing the exit_ , she says to herself, without meaning to. That was something Han used to say, whenever they dined in public– One of those jokes about his criminal past that wasn't really a joke. She takes another sip of her wine, which is a little too sweet, but not that bad. Han used to say a lot of stupid things. Things she never thought she'd be reciting under her breath like incantations.

A sharp trill cuts through the air, and silence falls over the room. A young man in First Order garb with an odd, flat cap is blowing on a silver whistle hanging from a chain around his neck. Everyone turns to look at him. Poe has his back to the entrance and has to crane his neck in order to see.

“All rise!” the man exclaims. Only about half the room– the First Order half– obeys him. “His Excellency Supreme Leader Hux of the First Order, Commander of their Fleet, Protector of their Territories, etcetera, etcetera.” The man bows in half at the waist, his flat cap somehow managing to stay on his head, and retreats backwards from the doorway.

Hux glides into the room, and all eyes are riveted upon him. Poe shoots Leia a look that says, _Can you kriffing believe this?_ Hux is dressed in all white, with a long red cape trailing behind him. He wears a crown of brilliant red crystal that clashes outrageously with his orange hair. His costume is regal, but not excessive. The brushed ivory broadcloth of his suit is plain, lacking the embroidery and filigree of the high Republican style. Leia has seen plenty of holo recordings of him– barking out one of his horrible speeches, or standing at parade rest, a scowl on his face. In person, smiling beatifically, he is almost unrecognizable. It suddenly occurs to Leia, for the first time ever, that he is only about Ben's age. The thought that this fearsome nemesis of hers is young enough to be her child puts a dull ache in her chest– She feels heartsick; Not for this self-styled 'Supreme Leader,' but for the sorry state of the galaxy in general. She has been fighting this war for so long that all of her old enemies are dead, and now she is fighting their children. The young man in the flat cap reappears in the doorway. Leia knows what's coming next. She's had months to prepare for it. But that doesn't make it any easier to face.

“Kylo Ren, Knight of the First Order, Disciple of the All-Knowing Force, Prince of the Alderaanian Diaspora, etcetera, etcetera,” the man announces.

Poe does a double take.

_Prince of the Alderaanian Diaspora? Who the hell do these people think they are?_

In contrast to Hux's grand entrance, Ben's appearance in the doorway is awkward and hesitant. He stands there for a good minute or so, looking around the room as if waiting for some sort of cue. He is dressed in a suit of black armor weave and nerf wool. It's a finer, heavier version of his previous garb– the long monastic robes that marked him as Snoke's acolyte– but with various additions that, judging by Hux's own costume, were probably the new Supreme Leader's idea. A black fur stole is draped across Ben's shoulders and secured at the front with two large silver pins, and his head is adorned with a circlet of red crystal of the same material as Hux's pointed crown. Most significantly of all, he is unmasked. Leia realizes, with a lurch, that she wasn't expecting to see his face. Or at least, not immediately, not so casually, not in front of all these people. He looks... _healthy_ , she thinks absurdly, as if there was any reason to suspect they were starving him. His face is longer and sharper, but aside from the scar, it hasn't changed that much. The rest of his body has matured much more noticeably. Her gangly son is now a tall, strapping, even beautifully proportioned man, and his costume is cut to accentuate his broad shoulders and elegant, tapering waist. He looks at her from across the room, his eyes flashing with recognition. And such naked pain–

She looks away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze, and takes another gulp of her wine. _Coward!_ she thinks to herself. _Even now._ He is the only one who has ever made a coward of her, and he has been doing it since the day he was born. When she looks back up at him, Ben's attention is elsewhere.

Poe leans over, tucking his chin against his shoulder. “How ya holdin' up, Chief?” he asks, too low for anyone else at the table to hear.

“Fine,” she says, which isn't even a lie. She's not crying, is she? She knows she's taking this better than most people would. She takes everything better than most people. Long before she knew anything about the Force, she was already using it to harden herself against fear, and grief, and desire, and weakness. It's both her best and worst quality, she knows, this hardness.

On the other side of the room, Ben is taking a seat beside Hux, and Hux is laying a hand on his shoulder and leaning in to whisper something in his blush-brightened ear. And then Ben is giving Hux a soft, sad smile. Leia puts down her glass. She had lost all hope, it occurs to her now, of ever seeing her son smile again. They look so comfortable with each other. So close. Ben's eyelashes flutter shyly against his cheeks, and Leia's heart plunges into her stomach. When she first learned that Ben had left Snoke, only to ally himself with General Hux, she had refused to jump to conclusions about what Hux might be offering him, because she didn't want to torture herself by speculating without information. It now seems obvious that Hux was the architect of the coup, and that Ben did not leave Snoke because he suddenly developed the ability to take his own initiative. He has simply gone from one master to another. And since Hux can't overpower Ben physically, it's a virtual certainty that Ben is being manipulated in some other way. It is exactly as she feared.

They have been intimate, she realizes, receiving this, perhaps, as an insight from the Force. She feels sick at the thought of her little boy being intimate with a man like Hux. She knows he isn't her little boy any more, not by any stretch of the imagination. He is a grown man, at least physically. But considering the nature of his _condition_... Well, it doesn't seem unreasonable to wonder whether he is capable of fully understanding and consenting to what Hux is doing with him. She remembers worrying about such things when he became a teenager– before everything went about as horribly wrong as it could possibly go, and she suddenly had other things to worry about. She remembers wondering whether he would develop normally, or whether his psychic abilities would render him so vulnerable to abuse and manipulation that he would never be able to have a healthy sexual relationship. Whether, unable to distinguish others' thoughts from his own, others' desires from his own, he would become the unwitting puppet of the first person to show him that kind of attention.

Leia wonders if Hux knows of Ben's unique nature. He may not have much knowledge of the Force, but as one of the only people in the First Order said to have had regular audiences with Snoke, he is likely to have picked up at least something. And even if he hasn't, he probably doesn't need to understand why Ben is so susceptible to his will in order to take advantage of the fact of it. (The way he is currently holding Ben's gaze and leaning in to kiss Ben's cheek certainly seems calculated.)

Poe taps her on the shoulder, and Leia looks up to see that a serving droid has been trying to set a plate in front of her for the past several minutes. She moves her glass out of the way, letting it do its job. She looks down at the array of green herbs and jewel-bright fruits and swallows, her mouth going dry. She isn't especially hungry. Poe nibbles cautiously at a wedge of pale blue citrus. Leia is not going to look over and see if Ben is eating. She is not.

Finn appears behind Poe. “General Organa,” he salutes. “Ma'am. Should I–? Am I supposed to–?” He indicates the empty chair to Poe's right.

“Please,” says Leia, gesturing. “Join us.”

Finn sits, looking askance at the fruit salad and wine. “What's this?” he asks. “Did they bring all this? You never see anything like this in the First Order. Even the officers have to eat puls most of the time. Well, officially anyway.” He's babbling to cover his nerves. Leia wonders, a little unkindly, how a kid like him ever lasted ten minutes in the First Order.

“It's a special occasion,” says Poe. “I'm sure they've spared no expense.”

A droid appears at Finn's elbow, placing a silver plate of fruit salad in front of him with a soft clink. “Oh,” he says, surprised at being included. “Okay. Thank you.” He looks down at his food, and then up at Leia, as though waiting for her permission to eat. She nods, and he eagerly shovels and handful of dark berries into his mouth. “It's good!” he says brightly, talking and chewing at the same time.

“I'm glad you were able to make it, Finn,” says Leia. “There's no telling how valuable your inside knowledge might be to me.” She gazes past him and into a nearby cluster of First Order officers, narrowing her eyes. “I can't imagine it's easy for you to face these people again. But you've shown real courage in coming here. You're under no obligation to offer me your services, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

Finn stops eating and looks up from his plate, his eyes sparkling with emotion. “Ya know, Ma'am,” he says, “I didn't really wanna get involved at first. But if there's anything I can do that might help end the war... Then I can't just stand by. I know there are others, like me, who don't wanna fight.” He presses his lips together, nodding to himself in affirmation. “I'm here because of them. Because they can't be. Besides,” he squares his shoulders, tilting his head to indicate the people behind him. “Who says I'm afraid to face any of these guys anyway? Maybe– I don't know, maybe _they_ should be afraid to face _me_.”

“I'll drink to that,” says Poe, lifting his glass. He looks expectantly at Finn who just sits there, confused. “Uh, you're supposed to clink them together, buddy,” Poe laughs. “It's like a... fancy high five.”

“Oh,” Finn scrambles to pick up his glass and Poe touches their rims together. “I like that,” Finn smiles. Leia reaches across the table with her own glass and gives each of theirs a firm tap before downing the rest of her wine.

After dinner, the young man in the flat cap approaches Leia, introducing himself as Petty Officer Thanisson. The silver whistle is gone from around his neck. He escorts her, along with her security team, to the room where she'll be staying. “We hope you will find your accommodations comfortable, General Organa,” he says, turning towards her when they reach the door. “Your staff was here earlier to drop off your luggage. We trust you'll find everything in good order. The Supreme Leader is eager to meet with you first thing tomorrow morning.” The poor boy's brow is glossed with sweat and his large ears are rimmed with burning pink. He's probably about twenty, but looks all of twelve. Leia can feel his pulse hammering in fear. “Sh-shall I tell him that you agree?”

“That's fine with me,” says Leia. “Why waste any time?” Thanisson gives her a shallow bow, turning to go, and for some reason, Leia feels moved to stop him. She wants to ask him what's wrong, why he's shaking in his jackboots, where he's going to sleep tonight. She wants to ask him when was the last time he saw his parents. Do they even know where he is? Are they even still alive? But Leia lets him disappear down the hallway without another word.

She enters the room they've prepared for her, leaving her guards to stand outside. It's nice. Everything about the space station is nice, in the slightly chintzy, pseudo-Republican style of a mid rim casino. It reminds her a great deal of Cloud City, with it's excessive air conditioning, tacky public art, and creeping sense of menace. She sits down on the bed, removing her heavy earrings and placing them in a little plastone dish on the end table. She doesn't really want to think about the place where she first confessed her love to Han– where, unbeknownst to her at the time, Luke first faced their father. But the Force is prodding at her, indicating that this comparison is important. Run-ins with destiny don't always take place in castles and enchanted forests, after all. Sometimes you're in a midscale hotel, a little bit drunk on overly-sweet wine, when your world turns upside down.

 

-

 

The next morning, Leia receives a message on her comlink informing her of her 'audience with the Supreme Leader.' She brushes her teeth, unbraids and rebraids her hair, and dresses in a simple black gown and black leather slippers. When she enters the conference hall, Finn is there to greet her in a Resistance dress uniform, his hair freshly edged and trimmed. Thanisson is there too, with a datapad tucked under his arm. It's too late for breakfast, but too early for lunch, and the conference hall is empty except for the two of them. Leia wonders how long they've both been standing there waiting for her, awkwardly avoiding each others' eyes.

 

“General Organa: The Supreme Leader will see you in his office,” says Thanisson, motioning for Leia to follow him and assiduously pretending Finn doesn't exist. He leads them down a hallway, stopping in front of an unassuming pneumatic door, and presses the call button. Leia flinches when the door slides open, half expecting to find Darth Vader and Boba Fett on the other side. Instead: Hux is sitting on a settee in front of a low table, wearing an impeccable cream-colored suit and drinking caf out of a thin paper cup. He has, at least for the time being, dispensed with the cape. His hair looks soft and tousled beneath his red crown, as he's apparently decided to stop putting wax in it. For a moment, Leia can't understand why this minor cosmetic detail makes her so furious. Then, in her minds eye, she sees it: Ben's trembling, reverent fingers combing through those bright strands.

 

“General Organa,” says Hux, without getting up. “What a pleasure it is to finally meet you.” He dismisses Thanisson with a wave, and Thanisson disappears into the hallway, the pneumatic door sighing closed behind him. Hux's legs are crossed at the ankles, one of his elbows resting on the back of the settee, his sugar-white hand draped like a lily against the dark brocade. Leia has been in politics all her life; She is not new to the concept of evil donning a fair facade. Still, the smug set of Hux's rosy, boyish mouth makes her stomach churn with rage. How dare he sit there looking like that, and being what he is?

 

“Your Excellency,” Leia bows. She manages to keep her voice almost entirely free of venom. Hux's chin tilts sweetly as he turns to face her. The architect of Starkiller is a human being like any other. She is going to remember that, and she is going to talk to him like a human being, because she has to. She is going to swallow down the bile that rises in her throat whenever she looks at him. It's a miracle he has agreed to arrange this meeting. It's a certainty he has some ulterior motive for doing so. But it's an opportunity Leia can't afford to pass up.

 

“What's _he_ doing here?” Hux asks, gesturing at Finn with his cup.

 

“Hey!” Finn bristles, “If you've got something to say, you can say it to my face.”

 

“Very well,” says Hux, his gaze coming to rest blithely on Finn. “What are you doing here?”

 

Finn takes an involuntary step back, breathing deeply through is nose. Leia skims his emotions– a combination of defiance and fear. He is terrified of Hux, regarding him less as a person than as a symbol of the First Order's authority. He never dreamed they would be meeting face to face like this, and he doesn't know what to say. Leia puts a hand on his shoulder. “As someone who has experience in both the First Order and the Resistance,” she says, “Finn has been kind enough to offer us his aid in facilitating communication between the two sides.”

 

“Is that so?” Hux laughs humorlessly. “Forgive me. I know you Republican types are given to meaningless pontification, but I didn't realize you actually required a translator in order to be understood.” Leia freezes. That's Hux's game, then? He's leading with snide insults? He must know she's not going to take such obvious bait. It's possible that she's massively overestimated him. This man is no Tarkin. He's an arrogant child. “Oh, do have a seat,” he says, gesturing at the other settee across the table from him. “You too,” he says to Finn. “Why not, after all?” Leia taps Finn on the arm, gently prodding him forward, and they sit down side by side. “Would you like some caf?” Hux asks, pulling two more paper cups from a stack and inserting two plastic cartridges of powdered bean into the machine on the table in front of him. He hums to himself, waiting for the cups to be filled. Leia raises an eyebrow, accepting the drink and takes a sip, trying to keep her face from withering. The caf is cheap and horribly bitter. She wonders why the 'Supreme Leader' can't afford something of higher quality. Finn copies her, almost dropping his cup in terror when Hux's fingers brush against his own. “Well, let's get right down to it then, shall we?” Hux says.

 

Leia sets her cup down on the table. “We're starting without Kylo Ren?” she asks.

 

“He... won't be joining us, I'm afraid.” Hux's eyes widen fractionally. He is taken aback. Perhaps he was planning on being the first one to mention Ben. But Leia has just robbed him of that particular piece of ammunition.

 

“That's odd,” she says. “I thought he shared command of the First Order with you. Where is he, then?”

 

“Meditating on the mysteries of the Universe, I expect,” says Hux, adjusting his carriage. “He isn't really much for politics. Leaves that to me. As I leave the mysticism to him.” He pauses, taking another slow sip of his caf. “We can't all master both, as you have, General.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling with scorn. “For all the good it's done you.”

 

Leia purses her lips. “I wouldn't say I'm a master of anything,” she says. “But I do bring my best to every challenge life throws at me.” Leia is determined not to think about what else, besides politics, Ben might be leaving to Hux. She is determined not to imagine where his is now– Where Hux might be _keeping_ him.

 

“Of course you do,” Hux tilts his cup at her. He frowns thoughtfully. “I'm actually glad you mentioned Kylo Ren. Diplomacy must proceed by first establishing areas of common interest.” Hux meets her gaze. “Don't you agree, General?”

 

“Absolutely,” says Leia, remaining impassive. She has spent months preparing, in the back of her mind, for the possibility that she might find herself in this very situation. Hux is dangling her son in front of her, keeping him just out of her reach, letting her know that he is being used and taken advantage of, and that there is nothing she can do to stop it. Hux, in his crude, boyish sadism, thinks this gives him some sort of power over her. He is about to learn just how mistaken he really is. “I believe that the fundamental interests of all sentient beings are united, and not opposed to each other,” she says. “We all want to live our lives in security and prosperity. We all want to build a galaxy in which those things are possible. And with that in mind, I want to talk about ending the war.”

 

“So you say...” Hux strokes his chin. “I confess, I was surprised to receive your original message requesting an armistice. But here we both are.” He waves his hand around in the space between them, pointedly ignoring Finn. “Might I ask what brought about this dramatic change of heart?”

 

“I'm not sure I take your meaning,” Leia frowns.

 

“Well,” says Hux, “your adopted father Bail Organa was instrumental in forming the Rebellion that started this war, and you have been following in his footsteps since you were scarcely out of girlhood. For you to suddenly want an end to the very conflict you yourself have been perpetuating for the past thirty-six years seems nothing short of extraordinary to me.”

 

“That's not how it happened,” says Finn. He flinches when Hux turns to look at him, as if he didn't realize he was speaking out loud. “I mean...” he struggles, his gaze plummeting into his caf. “The way they teach you about it in the First Order is backwards. There was supposed to be peace. General Organa wanted peace all along, but the First Order ruined it.”

 

Hux gives Finn a condescending look of concern. “I know you probably don't remember it, FN-2187. This all must have been years before you were born... But I assure you, there was never a single day of peace under the so-called Galactic Concordance.”

 

“It's Finn,” Finn gnars, hunching forward, one hand gripping the seat of the settee and the other nearly spilling his caf. “That's my name, and you're gonna use it.”

 

“Oh, is that one of your demands?” Hux mocks. “Is that going in the treaty?”

 

“It's a pre-requisite,” Leia interjects, growing furious on Finn's behalf. “If you're not going to take this seriously, 'Your Excellency,'" she says, "then I'll get back in my shuttle right now, and there won't be any further discussion between us.” Hux looks at her, his expression inscrutable. Leia tries to probe his emotional state, coming up against formidable shielding. For someone without any training in the Force, Hux seems remarkably adept at concealing his mind. “I'm not stupid. I know you didn't go to all the trouble of arranging this conference just to insult me and my personnel. If you didn't think the First Order stood to benefit from ending the war, then you wouldn't be here.”

 

“General Organa– Your Ladyship.” Hux puts down his caf and places a hand over his heart. “All I have ever wanted was to end the war. It has been the sole object of my life's labor. You Madam, and your Republican friends, have thwarted me.”

 

“That's not true!” says Finn, practically jumping out of his seat. He turns to Leia. “Ma'am you don't have to listen to this. I don't think there's any reasoning with–” He looks back, mastering his fear and meeting Hux's eye for the first time. “With _him_.”

 

“Your Excellency–” Leia starts.

 

“You know,” Hux cuts her off, “you don't really have to call me that in private. I can hear the quotation marks in your voice. Just 'Hux' will do.” He looks amused, though his eyes glint with something harder. Leia tries probing him again, and this time there is a subtle undercurrent to his presence. He is taking great pains to hide something from her, she realizes. But what? There is something quavering in his chest, some twisting thread of loose-blown psychic material. His mind is a frosted sphere of glass, concealing a tiny, leaping filament. A flashing knife's edge, that disappears from view each time she tries to look at it straight on. If Leia didn't know any better, she would say it felt like fear.

 

“ _Hux_ , then,” she says. “Can we agree to table the question of war guilt, at least for the time being? I ask, because I don't think we're going to be able to ligate the past thirty-six years of galactic history right here and now. I'd rather focus on the future, if you don't mind.”

 

“A bit convenient, for you, I'd say,” Hux sneers. “But in the interest of moving the discussion along, I'll entertain it.”

 

Leia looks at a spot just northeast of Hux's head, weighing the merits of slapping him across the face. She must admit to herself that, despite the toll it is taking on her own sanity, this meeting is going quite well. Much better, in fact, than she had any reason to expect. She must subdue the voices within her that would seek to sabotage it. Hux is willing to talk– and more importantly, he wants something from her. If he can be bought, he can be reasoned with. “You already know the broad strokes of my proposal,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It was summarized in the dossier I sent you.”

 

“Indeed,” says Hux. “I read it with great interest.” He reaches into his pocket and removes a slim silver box. “You don't mind if I smoke, do you?” he asks, already touching a cigarette to the lit end of his fire wand before Leia has a chance to answer him.

 

“Well,” says Leia, “I'll reiterate what I said, just to make sure we are on the same page. If the failure of the Galactic Concordance has taught me anything, it's that the divisions in this galaxy are much deeper than many of us once wished to believe. The removal of Emperor Palpatine did not bring an end the conflict, because the conflict itself was far greater than the life of any one being.” She folds her hands in her lap, pausing to wait while Hux rummages through a drawer in the table for a little plastone dish. He sets it down, tipping his ashes into it, and looks back up at her with an expression that says, _How good I am for humoring you_. “The dream of galactic reintegration turned out to be a fantasy,” Leia continues. “We found that we could no more force the defeated Imperials to become Republicans, than they could turn us into Imperials. What I am proposing now, is the formation of two independent states. Under this plan, the Resistance would agree to recognize the legitimacy of the First Order, and it's sovereignty over the territories it already controls. In return, the First Order would have to agree to recognize the legitimacy of the Resistance, and to cease all its efforts at territorial expansion. We are in the process of overseeing the reestablishment of Republican government in the Core Worlds,” she sighs heavily. “As soon as elections can be held, I will cede my authority to the new government and dissolve the Resistance. The military capacity of the Resistance will revert to the Third Republic. The First Order, and this Third Republic can then agree to coexist as separate states. It is my hope that, once diplomatic relations between the two states have been normalized, we might see the establishment of mutually beneficial trade.”

 

Hux takes a long pull from his cigarette, considering this, or pretending to. Curls of blue smoke issue from his parted lips like ribbons of shimmersilk. “If you intend to cede your authority so soon,” he says, “then what is the purpose of this meeting? Am I to understand that any agreement I make with you now might be undone by your successors?” He flicks a cinder into the dish, his lip curling in disgust. “No, Madam. I refuse to be held in suspense by the vagaries of Republican politics.”

 

“I should have been more clear,” says Leia, growing frustrated. “Elections will not be held until the war has been ended. That is, until you and I have reached, at the very least, a preliminary agreement. All I'm looking for up front is a cessation of hostilities. Unlike the Galactic Concordance, this new treaty would not include demilitarization as one of its terms. According to the solution I'm proposing, both states would retain full territorial independence, and both would have the right to maintain defensive arms, within reason.”

 

“Within reason,” Hux repeats. “Meaning what, whose reason?”

 

Leia takes a deep breath through her nose. She reaches for the Light, letting it fill her, letting it steady her. Finn's presence breathes beside her, throbbing with confusion and fear, glowing with courage and conviction. Hux's presence remains a smooth, illegible egg of indifference, surrounding a quivering golden yoke of some unknown emotion. “I'm not calling for demilitarization,” Leia reiterates. “I'm not suggesting that the First Order disband its fleet. But on behalf of myself, and all those I represent, I demand an end to weapons of planetary-scale destruction.” She pauses, holding Hux's gaze. “I've heard you claim that the purpose of Starkiller was to end the war. Well, Starkiller is gone now, and the war's still not over. I know you currently lack the resources to even think of building another one.” Hux raises an eyebrow at this. “But I'm talking about the future,” says Leia. “I will never compromise on this point. There is no other hope for the galaxy but to put the era of such weapons behind us. If you cling to this delusion of grandeur, you will doom us all. The war will never end until every last one of us is dead.”

 

“Hmm,” says Hux, his tongue moving thoughtfully behind his closed lips. “You're going to have to forgive me if I'm still a bit sceptical. You never did explain why you're suddenly so eager to end the war. You say we're all going to die as if you've got some objection to it. But it's never seemed to bother you in the past.” He looks away, and there is something almost wistful in his silver gaze. “What are another trillion dead peasants to you, Your Majesty?”

 

Leia feels a cold spike of rage. She reaches again for the Light, but this time it evades her grasp, leaving her with a heart of stone. She stands up from the settee, gathering her skirts. “The New Republic,” she says, bearing down on Hux, her voice beginning to shake like thunder, “and everything it represented is gone, thanks to you. But I didn't come here to tell you that. I don't really think you appreciate the magnitude of what you've done, and I don't really think I can make you appreciate it, and I'm not really going to try. I am here for one reason, and one reason only: I am trying salvage something from all this. To provide _some_ kind of future for people.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “You talk a lot about order, Hux. But you've wrought more chaos in this world than just about any single being ever has. There is no Republic. There is no Empire. We are starting over again from _nothing_. The Resistance and the First Order are _not_ governments. They are not equipped to provide for people. Do you understand what I'm saying? You think living conditions are bad now? Well, they're only going to get worse.”

 

“Well that's presumptuous,” says Hux. “Don't attribute your incompetence to me. Just because the Resistance can't manage to feed its own people–”

 

“Listen, _punk_ ,” Leia snaps. “It doesn't matter what you and I think of each other. If we don't come to some kind of agreement here, it just might mean the end galactic civilization as we know it. So you can wipe that smug look off your face and start cooperating with me, or you can go on deluding yourself into thinking that someday you'll be emperor of the galaxy and see how that turns out for you. If things keep going the way they are now, you can be emperor of the smoldering ruin.” Hux is still, a flash of astonishment escaping from behind his mental barriers. “Let me know when you're serious about talking to me,” says Leia, turning on her heel and storming out of Hux's office with Finn scrambling to follow behind her.

 

-

 

Lunch is being served by the time they all meet back in the conference hall, and at this point Leia is too hungry to pass it up. The serving droids present them with bowls of seasoned rice with nuts and chilled glasses of frothy green juice. Hux and Ben are conspicuously absent. Leia looks over at their table, and the woman with closely braided hair who sat at Hux's left last night stares back at her.

 

“That was amazing,” Finn is saying, beaming at Leia between bites of his rice. “You really told him, Ma'am! I think he was scared of you.”

 

Leia sighs, absently twirling her spoon. “No, Finn,” she admonishes him. “I made a huge mistake. I lost control of my emotions.” She was, perhaps, so focused on not allowing her feelings about Ben to cloud her judgement, that she neglected to treat all the other reasons she had for hating Hux with the same level of detachment. “I only hope I haven't jeopardized the possibility of peace,” she says, taking a bite of her rice and chewing it slowly. Despite her burning hunger, she is having trouble swallowing.

 

“Don't say that,” says Finn, gesturing with his spoon. “You've got this.” He cleans his bowl, washing the food down with a swig of the green juice. “Good to get the taste of that caf out of your mouth though, huh?” he grimaces. “I guess I'm kinda used to it, but I bet it's pretty nasty for someone like you.” He looks pleased. “Hux must be even more desperate than you said he was.”

 

“What do you mean?” asks Leia.

 

“Well, the officers don't usually drink that stuff,” says Finn, as if this is obvious. “Technically, everyone's supposed to get the same thing, but the rules about contraband don't really apply to people like Hux. Where do you think he gets his cigarettes from? They've got ways of buying whatever they want.” It probably seemed that way to Finn when he was a stormtrooper, but Leia figures this must be an exaggeration. “One time,” he says, “a captain on the _Finalizer_ died, and me and Nines had to clean out his room. And he had all this nice food, and we figured, why throw it away if no one was gonna miss it?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. The officers drink nice stuff. I mean, maybe not as nice as they had in the Republic...”

 

“Hold on,” says Leia. “Do you think the fact that Hux was drinking cheap caf is significant? We already know the First Order is experiencing a lot of shortages. Do you think this is something out of the ordinary?”

 

Finn nods. “I think if Hux is drinking stormtrooper caf,” he says, “it means things have gotten real, real bad.”

 

“How bad, Finn?” Leia leans forward.

 

“Well,” he says, crossing his arms. “Either they can't afford to buy the nice stuff anymore, or there's something up with the people in charge of that kinda thing, or both. But it's gotta be something bad.”

 

Leia brings a hand to her lips. “Why would Hux offer the caf to us, then? Why would he show us something that we might interpret as a sign of weakness?”

 

Finn tilts his head, closing one eye. “I don't know. Maybe he wasn't thinking about it too hard. Maybe he was distracted with something else. Maybe it was something else really important...” He squints. “Hey, we should try using the Force on him! Kylo Ren uses it to read peoples' minds all the time.” He drums his fingers against the table, looking a little sheepish. “I mean, Rey says she's learning how to do it too,” he adds. “So it's not just a Dark Side thing. Right?”

 

“I already tried that,” says Leia. “But he was very well shielded.”

 

“Wait, what?” Finn asks, rubbing the back of his neck in dismay. “You mean he blocked you? Hux knows how to do the Force? Do you think Kylo Ren taught him? Aw, man...”

 

“It's possible,” says Leia. “But it could also just be a result of Hux's training. A lot of people who grew up in the culture of the First Order have very closely guarded minds.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Finn frowns. “What about me?”

 

Leia smiles. “Your presence is a lot more open than most.” Finn looks worried. “I wouldn't be too self-conscious about it,” says Leia. “You just have a more demonstrative personality.”

 

“Yeah, well,” says Finn, hunching his shoulders. “I don't really like the idea that everyone can read my mind.”

 

“It's just ambient emotion,” says Leia. “Most of the time it doesn't give away any more information than your facial expression already does. Unless an experienced Force-user is trying to extract something from you, your privacy isn't really under threat.” Leia takes another bite, wincing at the sound of her own chewing. She's used to there being music at these things, though that's obviously not the First Order style. The hall is uncomfortably quiet given how many people are in it. Most of them are huddled together in small groups, holding tense, whispered conversations. The great galactic civil war has reached its school cafeteria phase.

 

Finn looks around for the serving droid, perhaps hoping for another bowl of rice. He gives up after a minute, turning back to Leia. “You know,” he says, “the weirdest thing about talking to him like that? He really seemed to believe what he was saying.”

 

“That surprises you?” asks Leia.

 

“Well, yeah.” Finn sobers, tracing illegible shapes on the table with his finger. “We were always taught to think that people like Hux were in charge because they were better than the rest of us. Hux was like the smartest person in the world. You would never question his plans, because you couldn't be smart enough to even understand them. After I got out, when I found out about all the lies they had told us– I was so angry at them, because I thought they must not believe any of that stuff themselves. I guess, in a way, I was still trained to think they were smarter than me.” He looks up. “But what if they're not? What if they just don't know any better? Even Hux? It used to seem like Hux just _knew_ things. You would never question _how_ he knew them. But he doesn't remember the Empire either, does he? Somebody must have told him about it. And what if _that_ person was lying?”

 

Leia takes a sip of her green juice, thinking about how to respond to this. “Hux was educated at Arkanis Academy,” she says after a while. “I can't say I really know anything about the curriculum there. But I'm sure they had their own version of history. The Academy was run by Hux's father, Brendol Hux, the man who founded the Stormtrooper program.” She winces in sympathy. “Based on what I know about the history of the program, and some of the things you've told us about your own training... I imagine Hux was subjected to a lot of the same methods.” Finn looks away. “I'm sorry,” says Leia, “I know discussing it makes you feel uncomfortable. I won't bring it up again.”

 

“Naw. Don't worry about it,” Finn waves her off. “It's not that.” He shakes his head in slow, blinking disbelief. “I've just never thought about it that way before. Hux was supposed to be so far above us, ya know? Like someone who didn't even _need_ training, because he already knew everything.”

 

“No one is born that way,” says Leia.

 

“Yeah,” Finn nods, still not looking at her. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

 

There's a low rumbling sound, the yawning awake of some sort of distant generator. The voices around them merge with it in an oceanic hush. Leia closes her eyes, listening to the room respiring until her mind feels empty. She wonders if this is what it's like to lose yourself... But no, it must not be so peaceful. There is fear all around her, but she feels like a boulder in a river, unmoved by it. She knows this isn't what it's like for Ben. Her attempts to understand what he was going through never did either of them any good– But she still can't stop trying.

 

“Are you alright, Ma'am?” Finn is asking.

 

“I'm fine,” Leia smiles at him. “I've just got a lot of things on my mind.”

 

“I bet it's hard,” says Finn, “being somebody important. Having so many people look up to you. I know you're good at it,” he adds. “I just mean, I don't think _I_ would have what it takes. I just took my helmet off and disappeared. But you can't do that– Everybody knows what you look like.” Leia stills. Finn is talking to her, but for a moment, she swears it feels like he's thinking about Hux.

 

-

 

Back in her room that evening, Leia pulls off her shoes and sits down on the edge of the bed, turning the events of the day over in her mind. She wishes she had been able to eat more, but she's still having difficulty swallowing. She has lost an alarming amount of weight since Han died. She was always petite in her youth, but this is different. A sign of sickness. She knows she must find a way to reverse it, and quickly. She's going to need all of her strength for what lies ahead.

 

She covers her eyes with the crook of her elbow. Her thoughts are caught in a vicious circle that serves no purpose. If there is one thing she can't tolerate in herself it's wallowing. But all she can think about right now is Han, and Ben, and where she went wrong. She remembers the first time Han left them. _A business trip_ , he had called it. _A vacation from reality_ , she had spat in his face. He had been ambivalent, at first, about fatherhood, but by the time Ben was born he had warmed to the notion. Those first couple years, she thinks, must have been the happiest of either of their lives. Ben seemed precocious and sweet-tempered at first, never crying or complaining, always obedient, always mimicking his mother's words far better than most children could. As Ben grew, however, it became clear that he was suffering in ways they hadn't even known were possible, and had been since the moment of his birth. He reacted with horror to the dawning realization that other people were separate from himself, clinging to Leia and screaming whenever she tried to put any distance between them. His powers manifested themselves without any coaxing or training, and soon he was constantly reaching into other peoples' minds, forcing his way in whenever they offered him resistance. He didn't heed peoples' demands for privacy, and didn't even seem to understand them. Daunted by the task of raising a child with both special needs and terrifying special abilities, Han had taken to disappearing for months at a time.

 

She's been avoiding it all day, but now, in the quiet of her room, she can't stop herself from wondering what has become of Ben in the months since Hux's coup. She assumes he is still somewhere on the base. She thinks she would sense it if he left, but maybe that's just wishful thinking. A part of her wishes, absurdly, that she could have grilled Hux this morning about the nature of his and Ben's relationship– used her power to hold him down and extract some sort of confession– but she has vowed never to reach for the Force in anger. She knows that the Darkness is present in her. That was one of the reasons why she was so hesitant to accept Luke's training. _It is present in all of us_ , Luke had said. But as the Lighter of the two of them, that was easy for him to say.

 

She curls her stockinged toes against the floor, trying to make use of the breathing techniques Luke taught her all those years ago, but the memory itself thwarts her. They are on the Forest Moon of Endor. She can see herself and her brother, sitting side by side in a clearing under the dappled shade of towering red trees. They are young, and strong, and victorious. Luke is trying to explain to her what happened between himself and their father, and she is trying in vain to imagine Darth Vader with Luke's slate grey eyes and grain-colored hair. Luke is offering to teach her what little he knows about using the Force. She does not yet realize that she is pregnant with Ben.

 

She has never really been able to forgive their father. At one point, she had tried, but then Ben's turning had felt like his fault, like a fresh betrayal. Her anger towards him has cooled since then, however. She is older now than Anakin ever was, and she no longer thinks of him in quite the same way she once did.

 

Meditation eludes her. She opens her eyes. The air conditioning is making her shiver. She throws on a robe, and stands in front of the mirror in the fresher, unraveling her hair. She washes her face and pats it with a hand towel. It's lucky she thought to pack her own soap, since the kind the First Order has provided is abrasive and smells like lye. She wonders if this is what they normally use, or if it's related to the shortages. The food and drink they've served have generally been decent, but they seem to lack access to certain basic products. There's something strangely slipshod, Leia thinks, about this whole affair. She came here expecting Hux to have some sort of angle, but the more she thinks about what Finn said to her, the more she thinks maybe Hux is making everything up as he goes along. He didn't even ask for anything at their meeting. He seemed to be trying to intimidate or impress her in some way, but it was awfully half-hearted.

 

Leia knows the First Order can't afford to continue the war indefinitely. It seems obvious that Hux is holding out on agreeing to a peace in order to maximize his bargaining power. If he's planning to use Ben against her at some point, he hasn't revealed how. Maybe he's saving that card for later. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to play it. She wonders, again, what emotion he was concealing from her, and whether he was doing it on purpose.

 

She walks back over to the bed, and sits down, her hands resting open atop her thighs. She can already tell she won't be able to get any sleep tonight. Meditation is no substitute, but it's better than nothing. She wishes she could peer into the future but, unlike Luke, she has no particular gift for foresight. She tries once again to regulate her breathing, reaching outwards towards the Light. This time, the Force obliges her, slipping itself between her ribs and curling itself around her heart. With each exhalation, she releases some of her anxiety, until at last her mind is silent. The glowing sea envelopes her. The visions of horror thrashing behind her eyelids fade to black.

 

Her eyes fly open. There is a shimmering in the Force beside her, a kind of deliberate mirage. Someone is watching her, she realizes, but trying to wrap themselves in a glamour so that she won't notice them. As soon as she turns her attention towards it, the presence retreats, the silver mirage scattering like beads of mercury. She chases after it.

 

 _Ben?_ she ventures.

 

The presence hovers. She doesn't receive any answer, but she can feel that she is still being watched. She knows it's Ben. Tears come, the first in a long time. She buries her face in her hands, quietly sobbing. The presence shivers around her, as if torn between the desire to come closer and the urge to fly away. It settles for idling like a hummingbird, darting and timid, above her. _Speak to me_ , she says. _Tell me what your life is now. Don't make me imagine it._

 

The presence evaporates. Leia opens her stinging eyes and looks up, the tears on her face cooling under the blast of the air conditioning. She takes a deep breath, grappling for her center. The Light hums around her, gathering strength. She reaches for her comlink on the end table to check the time, and frowns down at the display. There's a message on it, from an unknown channel:

 

 _/General Organa,/_ it reads. _/_ _Don't let Hux fool you. He needs your help, but he won't ask for it. He wants to end the war./_

 

 _/Who is this?/_ Leia shoots back. She doesn't expect a quick response. The message was sent hours ago. But her comlink pings immediately. Whoever is on the other end has been waiting for her to reply.

 

_/Someone who has Hux's back, but knows he's full of it. You don't know me. Hux is here, I can't talk now. I'll ping you later./_

 

Leia puts her comlink down on the table. She's already forgotten what time it read. She falls back, reaching to scoop the mass of her hair out from under her as she lays her head down on the pillow. The ceiling above her is covered in dull white plasteel ties. This is the world now: a blank canvas made of cheap material, a poor foundation for anything. She gazes up at it, throwing possible futures against it like shadow puppets until, at last, sleep deigns to receive her.

 

This was a trying day, but she has hopes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr:  
> [theeascetic.tumblr.com](http://theeascetic.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

There are over ten thousand sentient beings aboard the Othone space station. Ten thousand minds, wearing gravity wells in the Force. Kylo feels all of them. Snoke's guiding hands once bracketed his view like blinders, keeping his eyes on the Dark path ahead. In Snoke's absence, the Light has returned, rushing in from the sides like lava, the glowing parhelion of it swelling his chest. Returned, the screaming, bright white, beauty-horror. Returned, the kissing, caressing Light, the orgy of other-selves, the pleasure that only costs him everything he is.

 

Kylo is standing in one of the docking bays beneath an invisible atmospheric dome, surrounded on all sides by the roaring void of space. The wafer platform gives way to a narrow landing strip, illuminated on both sides by white diodes. It's dinnertime, but he isn't feeling hungry. Technically, no one is supposed to be out here, but who's going to stop him? He walks to the end of the landing strip like a prisoner forced to walk the plank into a sarlacc pit. Kylo looks up and the stars seem to crowd around him, kissing his face numb.

 

He is breathing with the world again, and it's not the agony he remembers it being. There is soft-good-glow all around him and within him, and it's not bleaching his thoughts white as fast as he can think them. He has lived in fear of this for fifteen years-- Reverting to the way he was before Snoke cured him, the Light coring him out again, leaving him hollow. But there is something he hadn't counted on: He isn't the same gormless child anymore. He has learned a great deal about the Force in his many years as Snoke's apprentice, and now that the Light has returned to menace him, he has tools he can leverage against it. Using his knowledge of the Dark Side, he has forged, at the center of his being, a tinted focusing lens that cuts through the glare. This dark instrument is his very own creation, and he is able to use it without Snoke's help. With great effort, under this titling, shadowy eye, he is able to maintain his own, original train of thought.

 

It's chilly out here, even with his heavy robes on, and the air tastes bright and thin. Flexing the arches of his feet, he stands on tiptoe and imagines the landing strip dropping away beneath him, imagines falling through the void forever. He wishes he could float here, under the dome, but he's never really been able to levitate his own body the way he can other objects. It's something to do with the way the Force connects body and mind-- He doesn't know why, but he finds it almost impossible to use his own powers on himself. Sometimes, he can manage to float a centimeter or two off the ground, but it's like trying to hold two matching poles of a magnet together: the arrangement is inherently unstable and immediately collapses. He tucks his chin against the cold air, shivering as he draws a pilfered cigarette and fire wand out of his interior pocket. He lights it, holding it between his lips. Inhaling the smoke makes him cough, and the drug does little for his nerves. Kylo just likes to nibble at it because it tastes like Hux, and sometimes, when he can't have kisses, it's the next best thing. He clicks off the fire wand, slipping it back into his robes, and rolls the blue smoke around his mouth, never taking it into his lungs. The sound of the anti-grav generators kills the illusion. If he was really floating through space, there would be silence.

 

The back of Kylo's neck prickles with the sense that someone is approaching from behind him. It only takes him a few moments to recognize them. “How did you get out here?” he huffs. “How did you get past security? No, never mind.” He shakes his head. “I don't want to hear about it.”

 

“Since when do you smoke?” asks Poe, as if Poe knows him. As if they know each other!

 

“I don't,” says Kylo, squinting into the void. “I just like to pretend to.” He reddens, realizing too late how weird and childish this sounds.

 

“What?” Poe laughs. “You _pretend_ to smoke?” Kylo turns around to face him. “I guess you must have picked that up from the 'Supreme Leader,' huh?” says Poe. “The new, cute one, I mean.” He is dressed in a smart-looking, dark brown uniform, a gold braid of rank on one shoulder, his lush hair neatly combed back from his face. Kylo swallows, his belly twisting in long-buried hunger and envy. Poe remains as effortlessly beautiful as ever. It takes so little to send those old feelings rising to the surface again.

 

“Is there something you want from me?” Kylo asks sharply, angry at his own foolishness.

 

“I see you got rid of the uh...” Poe gestures in front of his face. He gives that easy smile of his, but his eyes are pained. “Lookin' good.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Kylo sneers.

 

“So,” says Poe rubbing his upper arms against the cold. He clears his throat. “You're, uh... You're back, huh?”

 

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, turning away. The pressure of Poe's bright presence against his mind is briefly unbearable. “I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” he says. “I've never been to Othone before.” He flicks his barely consumed cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel.

 

Poe takes a step closer. “You've gotta talk to her,” he says. “You know how she is. She'll never be the first one to lower her guard. You've gotta be the one to-”

 

“Why would she want to talk to me?” Kylo asks.

 

Poe freezes, features crumpling in pain. “Of course she does!” he cries. “Gods, you're all she thinks about. Now that you're back-”

 

“No,” Kylo growls. “Don't start with this. This is why-- This is exactly why I can't-” He rocks forward on the balls of his feet, grappling for self control. “There _is_ no 'back,'” he says. “I don't expect you, or her, or anyone. To understand. I can't just. 'Go back to being my old self.' There is no-” He struggles. “I didn't _have_ one.”

 

“That's not true,” says Poe. “That's never been true. I don't know what He or... _It?_ Whatever. Told you. But.” His voice gets very small. “I knew you. You were a good kid.”

 

Kylo snorts. “I was a kriffing nightmare.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Poe shrugs. “That, too. They aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.” He tilts his head back, fathoming the stars. “Look,” he says. “I know it's really hard. But you've gotta realize-”

 

Kylo whirls around, eyes blazing. “I don't need one of your damn pep talks, Poe. 'Hey there, buddy.'” He gives a mocking thumbs up, adopting a cruel impression of Poe's voice. “'It's okay that you're different. Just be yourself!'” He breathes through his nose, shoulders heaving. “How?!” he roars.

 

Poe is silent for several moments, chewing his lip. “Actually,” he frowns, “I was gonna say you've gotta realize it's not all about you.” Kylo stills, and Poe continues: “You know that lady's like a mother to me, Ben.” He blinks back tears, his voice beginning to tremble. “I love her so damn much. And I can't bear to see her hurting.” He lifts his chin, his lips thinning in censure. “You're not back? Okay, sure. Whatever. Call it what you like.” He jabs a finger at Kylo, the way Han might've. “But you've gotta make this right somehow. You! You've gotta fix it.”

 

Kylo raises a gloved hand to shield his eyes, fighting down mirror-tears. “I don't-” he gasps, the Light washing over him, sending the dark lens skipping out of his grasp like a slippery stone. “I don't want to hurt her,” he says, empathy for Poe pouring into him from all sides, carrying his thoughts away like silt. He pictures Leia as Poe sees her: her open arms, her fierce, sad eyes. He tries to think of what to say next, but finds he is only able to copy Poe's sentiments. “Love her- You. Love her so much,” he echoes. He can hear himself sounding like Ben again. Like a creepy, malfunctioning protocol droid, just repeating people's thoughts back to them. He fumbles for the black stone as the currents of Light swirl around him, carelessly buffeting it back and forth. That polished lens, that little, glinting trinket contains his focus, his will, his voice-- He is helpless without it. He lunges and takes frantic hold of it, pressing it to his heart so that the blazing Light is filtered through it again. His heart skips in relief, his own emotions taking root again like delicate, night-blooming flowers in the safety of the shadows. The cool, black stone rises through his chest and slides up into his throat, soothing the burn of the Light, allowing him to speak again in his own words: “I'm sorry. I don't know what it is you want me to do.”

 

“Just _talk_ to her,” says Poe. He makes a kind of helpless trundling gesture with his hands. “I don't know what the hell happened to you in the first place, okay? And I don't know what's going on between you and Starkiller right now.” His gaze softens. “But I'm looking at you, and I know it can't be as bad as she thinks it is. You've gotta let her see that.”

 

“I-” Kylo trembles with a feeling that is all his own. “I can't,” he says. “I can't face her.”

 

Poe nods his head, brows furrowed. “You think about it, alright pal? You think about how you wanna handle this. You think about whether running away from it is really what you wanna do.” He turns to walk back up the landing strip.

 

“Hey, wait,” Kylo calls after him. “How _did_ you get out here?”

 

Poe stops, shooting a grin over his shoulder. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

 

“Tell me,” says Kylo.

 

“Some free advice, Ben – Ren? – Whatever,” says Poe. “Don't go around demanding information from people. It's not a good look for somebody who can rip it right out of their heads. Okay?”

 

 

-

 

 

By now, the day's negotiations must be over. Hux has been gone since breakfast, and the chrono shows it's getting late.

 

Kylo turns over onto his side with a groan. He is lying in his and Hux's hotel bed, his muscles sore from over-training. Since regaining awareness of his physical self, he's become a little addicted to exercise. Before, it was a necessary part of his discipline and combat readiness. Now that he can feel his body's strength, exerting it is a source of pride and pleasure. He stretches his arms out in front of him, wincing when his shoulders pop. He feels so achey-good. His dark sleep clothes are made of some ultra-soft bamboo material he had never heard of before that feels wonderful against his skin, and the mattress below him is promising to cradle him forever.

 

As Snoke's apprentice, he had come to think of his body as 'the animal.' The animal had to be taken care of, not coddled like a pet, but trained and maintained like a steed. Kylo himself was a creature of the Force, an eidolon of pure will. The animal was a living, warm-real thing with desires and needs, for which he was responsible-- But it was not himself. Kylo learned that whenever he felt weak-tired-empty, or hungry-cold it wasn't _him_ feeling those things, but the animal. He was merely an interested observer. Sometimes, the animal grew restless, fussing with a hunger he couldn't satisfy, pining for the fellowship of its own kind, for the soft-good-glow. When that happened, there was nothing to be done for it but to immerse himself in the Dark Side, fasting for days on end, denying the animal all manner of comfort until it could be brought to heel again.

 

Life with Hux is so different from life under Snoke. Hux's animal likes his, likes the kissing and petting, likes sleeping curled together in a packet of heat. Hux's mind is cold and dauntless, but his animal craves Kylo's warmth, Kylo's protection. Kylo, it seems, it not the only one to experience a certain level of disconnect from his animal. Hux and Hux's animal often seem to disagree.

 

The majority of the ten thousand sentient beings aboard this station are fast asleep. Kylo turns his face against Hux's pillow, using Hux's clinging scent to anchor himself as he is born aloft on a glowing ocean of dreams. This is bearable. He can live with this, this almost-whole almost-self, fragile and tiny, confined to the ambit of the dark lens, but present nonetheless. He can bear to live his life in a constant state of semi-pleasant, semi-painful semi-intoxication, as long as he is able to maintain this little aperture of clarity at the center of it all. He roves the dark eye, searching the dense, white tangle of minds for his Love, and his belly leaps with excitement. Right now, Hux is returning to their shared quarters for the night.

 

Kylo sits up, curling at the waist, his muscles aching and twitching with micro-tears, and stares at the door, waiting for Hux to appear in it. The words _always sit facing the exit_ float through his mind, the subject, no doubt, of someone else's dream, and he brushes them aside. He can hardly wait to hold his Love in his arms again. All Kylo wants is to sink deep into Hux's mind and never emerge, to become Hux's silent, hovering shadow. He would be perfectly content with not having a self if he could simply become a permanent part of Hux's self-- But he can't force himself on Hux in that way. He remembers too well Leia's frustration and pain, her thoughts of _parasite_ \-- and so he remains passive, allowing Hux to control their connection. The result is that the psychic bond developing between them constantly aches, pulling and tearing as Hux worries and picks at it, drawing it close to him in moments of what Hux considers comfort-seeking weakness, only to keep pushing it away again the instant he no longer needs it. This constant pruning and tearing binds them-- fitfully, painfully --closer together, for like muscle fibers, the damaged psychic threads always grow back stronger than before.

 

Kylo closes his eyes, releasing a deep breath through his nose as Hux's presence draws near. He reaches out, alarmed when Hux doesn't return or even seem to notice his mental touch. Hux's usually staid and guarded mind feels keyed-up and scattered. Kylo smoothes his hands over the bedspread, savoring the texture, trying to keep himself from floating out of his body as the glowing ocean of others' dreams swells all around him. His Love is here now. He has to stay present. The door slides open, and Hux steps into the room.

 

“You're drunk,” says Kylo.

 

Hux crosses the floor, shrugging his crown off into his hand, and dropping it onto the table with a glassy clink. “Not drunk enough,” he says, uncorking a bottle of blossom wine and taking a stiff swig, not even bothering with a glass.

 

“What's wrong?” Kylo asks.

 

“Wrong?” Hux rounds on him. “Nothing at all! The war is over! Celebrate with me, won't you?” He knocks back another throatful of wine.

 

“The war is over?” Kylo leans forward, hunching his spine. Hux takes a step closer, and Kylo lowers himself further, instinctively angling his head in expectation of pets. He can't help it, the change that Hux's affection has wrought in him. He has become flinching and tame. Probably, if he were a real person, this would be humiliating. During their years-long rivalry (cultivated and encouraged, he know realizes, by Snoke), he could never have imagined himself behaving this way in front of Hux, or anyone else for that matter. But his will, his pride, those things the Darkness gave him, are very limited now, and he isn't go to waste what little he has left of them trying to resist the urge to prostrate himself before his Love.

 

“Yes. I surrendered.” Hux slips out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. He looks reduced without the shoulder pads, his narrow chest rising and falling with shallow, hiccuping breaths. “Well-” he says, “Technically I signed a mutual cessation of hostilities. But what's the difference?”

 

“Isn't that exactly what you wanted?” Kylo frowns. “To end the war? I thought that was why we were here.” Hux presses his lips together, wordlessly gripping the bottle by the neck and lifting it in a gesture of mock-cheers. His eyes look glassy and over-bright. “Put that down,” says Kylo. “Come to bed with me.”

 

“Damnit, Ren!” Hux barks. “Would you quit your mewling for one second? I'm trying to get good and drunk.”

 

Kylo blinks. “You only call me Ren when you're mad at me.” He mentally rubs the dark stone like a talisman, drawing enough strength from it to keep himself from lowering his head any further. He is willing to submit to Hux in general, but he has enough of his own will to stand up for himself if Hux is going to yell at him for no reason. “What did I do?” he asks, pleased to find that he sounds more annoyed than wounded.

 

Hux gives an airless laugh. He puts the bottle down, crossing over to the bed. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm not mad at you.” He sits down on the edge of the mattress and stoops to pull off his shoes. “I just....” He sways. “Do you know how long I've waited for this day?” he asks, his voice thick with drink. “Since, before I was born, almost. Does that even make any sense to you?”

 

“You mean the end of the war?” Kylo slides up behind him and wraps his arms around Hux's waist, nuzzling the back of his neck. Hux twists himself around, drawing his legs up onto the bed, so that they are facing each other.

 

“Yes,” says Hux, his breath hot and sweet with wine, puffing against Kylo's face. “That was the whole point of me, you know. End the war, bring victory. That was the whole point of Starkiller.”

 

“Well,” says Kylo awkwardly, “it worked. Good job.”

 

“No,” Hux shakes his head in denial. He looks like he is on the verge of being on the verge of tears. “It didn't work at all. It was a complete and total waste.” He doesn't say of what. _My life_ , his eyes supply. _Five planets_. In that order of priority, Kylo notes. “In the end, all I had to do was sign a kriffing piece of paper. Could have gotten anyone to do that. What did they even need me for?”

 

Kylo puts a hand on Hux's shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting manner. “That's how wars usually end,” he says. “On paper.”

 

“I know that.” Hux thrashes, throwing Kylo's hand off. “I know how it kriffing works!” He turns back to Kylo, gaze blurring.

 

“This is what you wanted,” says Kylo, dumbly, again.

 

“Don't tell me this is what I wanted!” Hux cries. “I know!” He seizes Kylo by the hair, pulling Kylo into a bruising kiss. Kylo mewls in pleasure. The kiss of the cigarettes is always calming, he reflects, but it can never compare to the real thing. “Stop stealing my cigarettes!” Hux pulls back, slapping Kylo lightly across the face. “Do you have any idea how expensive those are? Do you know what lengths I have to go to get them now, what with the supply problems we've had?”

 

Kylo makes a soft, delighted noise, nuzzling the hand that slapped him. “How did you know?” he asks.

 

“You smell like smoke,” says Hux.

 

“Do I?” Kylo bounces in excitement. “Or did you read my thoughts?”

 

Hux curses and throws Kylo off of him. “Don't start _this_ again!” He stands up from the bed, retrieving the wine, and sits back down on the edge of the mattress, away from Kylo. “I've got quite enough to worry about already,” he rasps, taking another gulp and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

 

“I don't understand,” says Kylo, reclining against the pillows. “You're so jealous of my powers. I can feel it. Whenever you're angry at me, it's always the first thing you think about.” Hux snorts, staring at the wall. “Why aren't you interested in developing your own?” Kylo frowns.

 

“What's the point?” Hux squints glumly at the bright label on the bottle, setting it down on a small end table next to the bed. “I'll never be as powerful as you are, will I?”

 

“No,” says Kylo. “That would be extraordinary. I'm very powerful, and I've been training for a very long time.”

 

Hux turns around to face him. “Then I'll never be able to defend myself against you, will I?” he says. He's drunk, Kylo notes, but still coherent enough. He means exactly what he's saying. “I'll never be able to throw you across the room, or choke you, or stop your heart-- Or any of the other things you could decide to do to me at any moment.”

 

Kylo plants his hands on the mattress, crawling across its surface towards Hux and lowers his head into Hux's lap, prostrating himself completely. “You must know I would never hurt you, my Love” he says. “You command me. I am yours.”

 

Hux strokes Kylo's hair, still staring straight ahead at the wall, sweeping a teasing thumb behind Kylo's ear. Ever since Hux's fingernails have grown back, this gentle scratching has become one of Kylo's favorite sensations. “It doesn't matter what you say,” Hux sighs. “The knowledge that you can kill me by looking at me will always be there, every moment we spend together.” He drives the crescent of his thumbnail into the tender flesh behind the hinge of Kylo's jaw and Kylo gasps, riveted by this little prick of pain, the way it offsets and deepens his pleasure. Kylo whimpers, burying his face in Hux's lap. “You can whine about it all you want,” says Hux. “You can get down on your belly on the floor and lick my boots. It doesn't matter. You could still kill me, blindfolded, with your hands tied behind your back. That simple fact will never go away. Maybe you can use your powers to trick my mind so I won't think about it. But _you'll_ still know about it. And it will still be true.”

 

“It doesn't have to be that way,” says Kylo, trembling with the urge to press his face into Hux's groin. “The bond between us is strong. You could have control of my powers. Control of my body.” He drags the flat of his cheek against Hux's thigh, imbibing Hux's scent. “All I want is to become one with you. To let my mind be subsumed within your mind. You would have all the power that way. And I would finally be free of suffering.”

 

Hux stiffens. “What am I am supposed to think when you say things like that? Hmm? You sound... Quite frankly, you sound insane.” He slides his legs out from under Kylo's head and pulls his pants off, slinging them over the chair with his jacket, and then balls up his socks, letting them roll out of his hand onto the floor. The sight of Hux's creamy thighs fills Kylo's entire body with tremble-hunger. Down to his off-white shirt and white loinclothing, Hux stretches his arms above his head and lies back on top of the covers. “Listen to me,” says Hux. “You're not a-- A 'half-person' or whatever it is you think you are. I'm not going to 'absorb your mind.' This whole... argument? Is this even an argument? This whole conversation is completely ridiculous. Lights, ten percent,” says Hux, lying on his side, his head resting on one of the pillows. “Let's get some sleep, shall we?” Kylo rolls towards him, clasping at Hux's belly and pulling Hux's shoulder blades against his chest. The fine fabric of their clothing slides deliciously between them as they press against each other in the violet darkness. Kylo moans quietly. He may never get used to this, this touching. Every velvety press of flesh feels like the very first. So soft-good-sweet he almost can't stand it.

 

“You like this, don't you?” Kylo asks breathlessly, stroking Hux's sides. “It's good for you, isn't it?” Hux responds by reaching for their bond-- _Oh, soft! Oh, joy of joys!_ \--and Kylo grasps him tightly from behind, instantly overwhelmed. “ _Yes_ -” Kylo mouths. “Like _this_. Why can't we stay close like this all the time? Why do you push me away?”

 

Hux shifts in his grip. “I don't want this constantly,” he says. “And you don't need it, the way you think you do. I don't like it when you carry on about letting me 'consume' you. All this talk of not having a real self-- It's absurd.” Hux fidgets his legs against the bed, searching for a more comfortable position. “Stars, if you're not in there, then who the hell am I talking to?!” He sighs. “I know you have a mind. I can feel it-- Yes, through the Force, I suppose. I know your mind is... unique, in ways that make life challenging for you. But I promise, you've got one. It's yours.” He glances sightlessly back over his shoulder in the dark. “Now quit trying to fob it off on me, will you?”

 

Kylo is silent for a moment. “The- The _touching_ though,” he ventures. “I can have that, can't I? As much as I want. You said.”

 

“I...” Hux pauses. “Of course you can. It's what I... promised you. Isn't it?” Hux is rigid in Kylo's arms, his pulse hammering between his shoulder blades. Sometimes, when they are close like this, he has these sudden spikes of fear. This time, the drink has loosened his mental shields, giving Kylo easy access to his racing thoughts: _This weak body is all I have to offer you. Please let it still be enough to control you. To buy your obedience, your protection. It's the only thing I can give you that He can't. When you get tired of it, when it loses whatever charm or novelty it holds for you-- On that day, I am doomed._ “Nine hells,” says Hux. “It's really over.”

 

“The war, you mean?” Kylo asks. He noses Hux's soft-good-creamy upper arm. “What do you need? What can I do?”

 

“Get me off, why don't you?” says Hux. Eagerly obedient, Kylo reaches around to palm at Hux's groin. “Wait!” Hux freezes again. “Not like that.” He rolls over, so that they are facing each other in the dark. “This way,” he says, faking a smile. “Looking at each other.”

 

“What's wrong?” Kylo frowns.

 

“Nothing,” says Hux, too quickly, still a little slurred. “It's just... more romantic this way. Don't you think? Here.” He reaches for the front of Kylo's bamboo sleep pants. “We can do each other.” Kylo senses that he should maybe be suspicious of this-- after all, Hux seldom goes out of his way to be romantic --but the prospect of sex-touches makes him disinclined to question it.

 

“Okay,” says Kylo, his chest sparkle-warming with excitement. “That sounds good.” They reach out through the dark, slowly stroking each others' flanks, making each others' animals purr. Hux's hands move over Kylo's ribs, rubbing the fabric of his sleep clothes wonder-soft against his burning skin. Kylo mewls and whimpers, helpless-hungry and tremble-hot. His new, strong-good body never feels more real than when Hux is touching it. _Oh Love!_ he thinks. _So special-pretty, my good Love, sparkle-fine_. _Special-pretty, even in the dark. Sparkle-fine, even now, when you're drunk and full of horror-secrets._

 

Kylo is half-hard, while Hux is still soft as they begin to play with each others' penises. It doesn't take long for both of them to become fully inflamed and breathless. Kylo rolls his hips, the blood-bright tip of him poking Hux's milk-white belly beneath the hem of his shirt.  Hux groans, giving in to the tremble-hunger, pulling on Kylo's erection and pushing his face into Kylo's chest. They fumble at each other, making tiny, wounded noises. Their animals are not well-trained at this, and they both come quickly, as usual. Kylo yells as Hux flings him out of his body-- For a moment, he feels he is actually floating beyond the dome, among the stars, before crashing back down into bed again. Hux comes a minute later, soiling Kylo's belly in turn, and their animals curl against each other, quailing with skin-hunger and vague shame. 

 

They hold each other sticky in the violet darkness, the air conditioning cooling the glaze of sweat covering their bodies, making them shiver as the tremble-heat ebbs out of them. Hux reaches down and pulls the abundant thermal blankets over them, too drunk and tired to bother with washing up first. Kylo relaxes, the achey-good filling muscles, and soon they are both fast asleep.

 

-

 

 

Kylo dreams of an all-grey world.

 

He sees a stately manor house, perched high above a vast, grey beach. Rain falls in silver sheets upon the pale grey house and dark grey shore, beneath a swirling, storm-grey sky. There is just one jot of color: Upon closer inspection, he can see that the grey shore is dotted with tiny pale pink flowers. 

 

Kylo blinks in confusion. He is standing at the end of a long, dark hallway. He is not himself, but Hux-- Or rather, some child version of Hux. He looks up. Someone is crying in the distance. He runs on feeble child legs and presses his ear to the door at the end of the hall. The crying is coming from behind it. He enters.

 

He finds himself in an old-fashioned master bedroom. A large man with a red beard is sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, clutching a bottle of amber drink. His pink face is mottled, his grey eyes red with tears. He is rocking and moaning-- long, mournful, animal moans. Child Hux ventures into the room, his hummingbird heart fluttering. “Father?” he asks. “Why are you crying?”

 

The man-- the Commandant --looks at Hux, but seems to stare straight through him. “She's gone,” he wails. He takes a swig from the bottle, his fat fingers choking its slender glass neck. “She's all gone.”

 

“Who's gone?” Hux asks, his tiny hands balling into nervous fists at his sides. “Father, please. Don't be sad.”

 

“Your mother, boy,” the Commandant spits, as if her death is somehow Hux's fault. “They called me," he heaves. "It's been days, and they've only just called me.” The Commandant's other hand unfurls, letting his brass-colored comlink roll onto the floor.

 

Hux is still. He barely remembers his mother. All this time, he wasn't even sure whether she was still alive, and now she's dead. “You're not-” he stammers. He reaches out, petting the Commandant's beard. “You're not alone, Father. I'm here.”

 

“Armitage,” the Commandant sobs. “Oh, Armitage.” He puts the bottle down next to him on the floor, and pulls Hux's tiny body into a clumsy embrace. “Stars you're so much like her,” he says. “So soft.” Hux closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the Commandant's heavy hands and bitter breath. He can't remember ever being held like this by his father. It feels good and frightening at the same time. Experience has not taught him what to make of this. “You think I'm cruel to you,” the Commandant says.

 

“No, Sir,” says Hux, frantically shaking his head.

 

“It's for your own good, boy,” the Commandant snarls.

 

“You know best, Sir,” Hux agrees.

 

The Commandant grabs one of Hux's skinny upper arms, shaking him. “Look at me,” he says, the smell of drink and stale sweat rolling off of him, making Hux shudder. “Soft things don't last.” Fresh tears are rolling down his sagging cheeks, disappearing into his red beard. His eyes are shining with something that might even be love. “You have to learn,” he says. “You think I'm cruel to you, but I'm trying to prepare you-- Trying to save you. You're lucky I let you keep my name,” he growls. “Most wouldn't, in my position. I wouldn't have either, but I saw something in you. Potential. Intelligence.”

 

“Thank you, Sir,” says Hux, beginning to cry himself. “I'm so grateful, Sir.”

 

“But that wasn't all,” the Commandant continues, ignoring him. It's almost as if he's reciting these words to himself, as if he doesn't realize Hux is there. “I saw her Light in you, and I couldn't let it go. I had to save it. But the only way to save it is to crush it. Don't you see? It's an impossible task. It's impossible, what you've put me through.”

 

Hux says nothing. He has never seen his father this way, so unguarded. Part of him is worried it might be a test. Eventually though, he can't take it anymore. There is one thing he is desperate to know: “Did you love my mother very much?” he asks softly, lowering his head. The Commandant wails, long and low, pulling Hux against him again. Hux wraps tentative arms around his father's neck. _Do you love me?_ he wants to ask, but doesn't dare. He wonders if this strange embrace will lead to more in the future, perhaps under slightly more pleasant circumstances.

 

Kylo feels himself fall through the space between dreams, materializing with a jolt on the other side. Here, Hux is older, about seventeen. He is standing at the center of a strange, horrible cube of mirrors, and there is another man, who looks to be in his twenties, standing behind him. They are both dressed in grey uniforms. The man is screaming into Hux's ear, and Hux is standing perfectly still, determined not to react to him. The cube of mirrors creates a dizzying tesseract, reflecting them infinitely back at themselves in all directions. Hux stares straight ahead into his own kaleidoscopically repeating image. This is not yet Kylo's Hux. He is almost as tall as he will be, but gangly and unformed, baby-faced and shallow-chested. And his eyes contain only the very beginnings of Hux's durasteel resolve.

 

The man stops yelling, evidently pausing to rethink his technique. His yellow hair is sticking to his forehead as he perspires with effort. The look on his face changes, and he sidles up behind Hux, putting a hand on Hux's shoulder. “I see how it is,” he says. “You like this, don't you Armie? Like to be put in your place?” The hand travels down Hux's back, reaching under his arm to palm at his belly. “So soft,” the man murmurs, and suddenly his lips are centimeters from the back of Hux's neck. Hux swallows, tilting his head away from the man's mouth. The man's grin is infinitely reflected in the mirrors. The hand slides down Hux's belly, slipping under his waistband to grasp his soft penis. Hux's stomach clenches, rolling with bile. This isn't the first time a session in the Expiation Room has gone this way for him, though it's the first time with this particular cadet. “Come on,” the man breathes. “Don't be shy, soft one.” Hux can feel the man's erection poking the small of his back. He looks into the mirror and sees them both from all sides simultaneously, rotating like a music box ornament, spinning forever through the infinite silver chasm, and something within him short circuits.

 

The man cries out as Hux whirls around, body-slamming him into the wall. His head cracks loudly against the mirrored surface, splintering the glass, and he stumbles forward, grabbing clumsy fistfuls of Hux's clothes, dragging Hux down with him as he collapses onto the floor. On his hands and knees, Hux scrambles out of his grip. Before the man can right himself, Hux grabs a large shard of mirror and drives it into his neck. Blood surges from the wound, pouring over the man's chest. The man falls onto his back making horrible gurgling noises, his eyes wide with shock. Hux climbs on top of him, lifting the shard high above his head and jamming it into his throat again and again until he stops moving.

 

Panting, Hux kicks the corpse away from himself, scuttling backwards. The corpse gurgles its death rattle, making Hux jump and he cries out, dropping the shard of mirror onto the silver floor beneath him with a clatter. It's left a deep groove in his palm. Blood wells and he grabs his wrist, hunching over the wound.  The swelling pool of the cadet's blood is infinitely reflected in the mirrors, the silver prism teeming with red ellipses, like giant blood cells-- inverting the micro and macroscopic.  Hux himself is the tiny specimen, a fleck of matter trapped between slides of glass.  He brings his forehead down to meet his knees, chest burning with the realization of what's just happened.  

 

It's almost an hour before they find him, locked in the Expiation Room with the dead body of his fellow cadet. His hand is bandaged and he's fed some small, blue pills to tamp down his shock. They wipe the blood off of him, drag a comb across his head, and send him to meet with the Commandant.

 

Hux enters the Commandant's back office, feeling lightheaded and numb, resigned to whatever form of discipline awaits him. The Commandant is seated behind his desk, a datapad in his lap, his antique crystal decanter, filled with bourbon, and two matching tumblers on the blotter in front of him. Hux stands at attention, surreptitiously eyeing the tumblers. Why are there two? Does the Commandant expect company? Will there be someone else present to observe his punishment? He feels a spike of fear.

 

“Have a seat, my boy,” says the Commandant, gesturing at the chair across from him. Hux sits, back ramrod straight despite his pounding pulse and quivering exhaustion. The Commandant regards him strangely. There is something leaping in his grey gaze that Hux doesn't recognize, something expectant and satisfied at the same time. The Commandant pours a few centimeters of amber liquid into each of the tumblers, taking one in hand and nodding his head at the other. “Go on,” he says.

 

“Sir?” Hux rasps. He left his voice back in the Expiation Room.

 

“Have a drink with me,” says the Commandant.

 

Hux's heart skips. “Sorry, Sir. What's the occasion?”

 

The Commandant smiles into his bourbon. “I'll tell you after you've taken a sip.” Hux takes up the tumbler, tilting it against his lips. He finds he likes the drink, the way it burns through his chest. The Commandant hands him the datapad, and he peers down at it, confused. He takes another, fortifying sip, and looks again. This time, he understands. “That's right,” says the Commandant. “I'm officially claiming you. As soon as I file this form, you will become my heir, as a matter of public record.”

 

“Father,” says Hux, gazing into his glass. “I- I don't know what to say.”

 

“Armitage,” says the Commandant, “look at me.” Hux looks up. It's pride, he realizes. That's what's making the Commandant's eyes shine. “The man you killed.” Hux flinches. “He was bigger than you. Stronger than you. He called you soft-”

 

“You saw?” Hux blurts.

 

“Of course,” says the Commandant. “I was watching on a closed circuit holo.” Hux looks away, coloring with shame. “You destroyed him,” says the Commandant. He extends his glass, and Hux looks at him, confused. “You're supposed to touch them together,” the Commandant laughs.

 

“I know, Sir,” says Hux, scrambling to pick up his glass. “I'm sorry, Sir.”

 

The Commandant taps them together with a clink and knocks back the whole pour of bourbon at once. “There are those who break under the rigors of expiation,” he explains. “They are culled from the herd. There are those who bend, allowing the process to transform them and reshape their thinking. They become our loyal officers. And then, there are the very few who strike back.” He smiles broadly. “Armitage,” he says. “My son. You are ready to embark upon the next phase of your education. You are ready to leave the Expiation Room behind.”

 

“Thank you, Sir!” says Hux, eagerly sipping more of his drink. He is beginning to feel a bit woozy, but he finds he likes it. A part of him is terrified. For all he knows, the next phase of his education could be something even worse. Another part of him is attempting to be elated. The Commandant is claiming him. His father is proud of him. This is the moment he's been waiting for his entire life. He's supposed to want this. It's supposed to make him happy.

 

“You'll have my name now,” says the Commandant, “officially. No one will ever be able to say anything about it ever again. And if they do? You cut them down. You show them who's in charge. Don't ever let the officers talk to you the way that man talked to you.”

 

“Sir,” says Hux. “It wasn't just-- He didn't just _talk_ to me, he tried to-”

 

“I know,” says the Commandant, his brow creasing ruthfully. “But you put a stop to it, didn't you? He tried to make you feel inferior, and you made him inferior. You made him dead. Next time,” he admonishes, “don't get caught. If you can dispose of your enemies in secret-”

 

“Father,” Hux pleads. “He- This wasn't the first time. There have been others who touched me. This time was no different. I just...” He successfully bites back tears. “I couldn't take it any more.” The Commandant looks at him, and Hux _knows_. Hux's stomach plunges. His father has been watching all along, waiting for him to strike back. That was the test. Hux puts down his glass. “Thank you, Sir. For everything,” he says. The Commandant seems to be in such a good mood. Hux doesn't want to spoil it.

 

Later, he will return to the barracks. In the harsh light of the communal fresher, he will notice the blood of his fellow cadet still crusted under his fingernails and he will turn and vomit into the basin. He will tell himself over and over again that this is what victory feels like, that this is what he wanted.

 

Later still, the Commandant will die of an aneurysm. Or at least, that's what Hux will be told. Hux will numbly riffle through his things, selling or disposing of most of them. But he will keep the victory decanter.

 

Eventually, this Hux will become Kylo's Hux. He will fill out a bit and acquire a taste for some of his father's vices. He will wear his father's name with pride, and cut down anyone who says anything about it. He will dream grander and more terrible dreams than his father's limited imagination could ever have conjured. He will learn to speak, the way Kylo's Hux can speak, before an audience of billions, his eyes like mirrors, something crunching and flashing between his teeth, like ice chips, or muzzle flares, or stars.

 

 

-

 

 

When Kylo wakes with a start, it's still the middle of the night, and Hux is thrashing and moaning against him in his sleep. He smooths a hand over Hux's hair, trying to calm him. Kylo generally doesn't receive visions of the past or future. What he has just witnessed are Hux's nightmares. Hux opens his eyes, his bright lashes fluttering in the darkness. “Hey,” says Kylo, “it's alright.”

 

“What time is it?” Hux asks. He rubs his temples, already hungover.

 

“Time to go back to sleep,” says Kylo. Hux sits up in bed, peeling his shirt off, and throws it away into the shadows. “What are you doing?” asks Kylo.

 

“Trying to get comfortable,” says Hux. “I feel... disgusting.”

 

Kylo removes his own shirt and puts his hands on Hux's waist, guiding him back down under the covers. “Better?” he asks. Hux makes a noncommittal noise, but slides eagerly against him, letting their chests kiss. Kylo whimpers in pleasure. There is a kind of gentle suction between their bodies whenever they are skin to skin like this. Kylo is aware of himself telekinetically pulling Hux's flesh against his own, sometimes without even meaning to. In moments of high intensity, he can even feel Hux pulling back. “You're so perfect,” he whines. “You feel so good. Why do we have to wear clothes at all?” Hux snorts, pausing midway through running his hands over Kylo's face. Kylo grabs his right wrist, kissing the right palm. “So soft,” he says, before he can stop himself.

 

“It wasn't always. There was a scar there,” says Hux. “Across my palm. But you got rid of it.” He sounds haunted. “You got rid of _all_ my scars.” He slides a hand across Kylo's ruined belly. “Why don't you get rid of yours?” he asks.

 

“Can't-” Kylo swallows. “I can't use my powers on myself. I don't know how.” He is riven with shame. “I hope you... don't hate them too much. Gods, you're so perfect. Even before I fixed you, you already had such beautiful skin. I'm sorry mine is so ugly.”

 

Hux braces both hands against Kylo's shoulders. “Lights,” he calls. “Seventy-five percent.” He looms over Kylo, his pink nipples standing bright upon his white chest like rosebuds, so sparkle-fine and wonder-pure. “You know,” he says, pointing his chin at Kylo, his downcast eyes appraising, “I don't fault you for the scars. You earned them in combat. They are nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

“It's not just because of combat,” says Kylo. “I've never been... smooth and fine, like you.”

 

Hux frowns. “What do you mean?” He lies down on his side, sliding his sweet-cream thigh between Kylo's long, beastly legs. Hux moves slowly, teasing Kylo, not necessarily looking for more sex-touches, just liking this feeling in the background while they talk.

 

Kylo yawns, stretching his arms before letting them drop down to rest on his belly. “I used to think that everyone got a few years, between being a kid and getting old, to be a beautiful object,” he says. “Look.” He points down at himself. There are silver-white stretchmarks spanning his shoulders, his ribcage, the outsides of his thighs. “You can barely notice them now, under all the scars. But the day I first noticed them, I cried and cried. I was fourteen, and I was getting so tall, so quickly that my skin was tearing because it couldn't hold me.” He brushes his knuckles against Hux's hip, ceaselessly awed by Hux's flesh, by the pure-sweet-yielding. “It seemed so unfair. I was already covered in spots- And now these, too?” he huffs. “I felt like my body was betraying me. Sabotaging my happiness. Already ruining itself before it ever had a chance to be grown up and desirable. Shouldn't everyone get to be perfect, for just a few years? But that's not how it works.” He squeezes Hux's hip, his chest aching. “That very night, the night I noticed the lines. That was when Snoke completed the severing between me and my body. I think he needed me to hate my body, in order to do it. He needed my cooperation. When I woke up the next morning, I was. Numb. From then on, I no longer worried about being beautiful. I still thought I was ugly, but it didn't hurt as much any more. It was just the animal that was ugly. Not me. The real me was of the Force.”

 

Hux stares at him, baffled. “You really are envious... of _this?_ ” He indicates his soft chest. Kylo licks his lips, looking away. Hux gives a laugh that turns halfway through into a sob. “If only we could somehow trade,” he hushes. He orders the lights back down, and wraps his arms and legs around Kylo's body. They hold each other tightly, rolling and intertwining in the darkness, their heated skin unconsciously sticking, until they both fall back asleep. They can't trade, but this is probably the next best thing.

 

 

-

 

 

Kylo is standing on a rocky bluff, surrounded by explosive green foliage beneath a soaring hot-blue sky. The outcropping on which he finds himself overlooks a choppy grey sea. He feels like he's seen this place before, and his heart shudders when he remembers where. He looks down at himself. He is in his own body, but it's staticky and filter-blue, like an old hologram. As if he is standing in some sort of cosmic airlock – some space between worlds. He can feel himself curled warm and safe in bed with Hux, even as his mind roams to this place. This is no ordinary dream. Perhaps, it is no dream at all.

 

He turns around, starting at the crunch of footsteps. There is a hulking, black thing beached upon the grass, a kind of mechanical organism with whipping tentacles and a wide, open mouth. It takes him a few moments to realize that it's some sort of space craft. There are two figures standing before its gaping maw, preparing to disembark from the green and blue planet.

 

Moving closer, he recognizes one of the figures: It's Rey. She has changed since their duel on Starkiller. She wears a sleeveless tunic and short leggings of grey felt, and her hair falls long and loose about her shoulders. She looks harder and readier, less malnourished than before. Her biceps have visibly swelled after months of training. Tears are streaming down her face. The other figure is a woman who looks just like Rey, but older. She is speaking softly and stroking Rey's hair. “My daughter,” she is saying, “at last, I've found you.”

 

“Where were you?” Rey sobs. “Why didn't you want me?”

 

“I have _always_ wanted you,” says the woman. “I haven't stopped searching for you, every single day, since the Jedi stole you away from me.”

 

“No,” Rey gasps, shaking her head in denial. “Luke would _never_ -”

 

“Oh, child,” the woman hums. “You have no idea what Luke Skywalker is capable of. He has deceived you. I know you've sensed it.” She tilts her head fondly. “I know you've had your doubts about him during your training.”

 

“Yes,” Rey confesses. “I have.” She takes a step towards the woman, closing the gap between them. “Oh, Mother. Can _you_ teach me the ways of the Force?” Kylo is mystified. The woman looks so much like an older version of Rey – Too much alike, he thinks, to actually be her mother.

 

“Wait!” he calls, running towards them. Rey turns to look at him, her eyes flashing with recognition, followed closely by rage.

 

“You!” she cries. “What are you doing here?!”

 

“Rey,” says Kylo, breathless. “Listen to me: Don't go with her! She's not your mother!”

 

“Stay away from us!” says Rey, repelling him with a powerful Force-push. “Leave me alone!” Kylo throws up his hands to defend himself, but Rey is stronger. She pushes him over. Rolling on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, Kylo reaches for her.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says, desperate to stop her from boarding the ship with the woman. “I'm sorry for everything. I know you hate me. But you have to listen to me!”

 

The woman steps between them, looking down at Kylo. “My daughter said to leave her alone, you ugly brute.” She stands over him, planting her foot in the center of his chest and pinning him to the ground when he tries to stand back up. “Go back to your general,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners in pity. “See if he still wants you. No one else ever will. You two pathetic creatures deserve each other.”

 

Kylo wilts beneath her. “Rey,” he pleads. “You are good, and whole, and beautiful. Don't let her ruin you!” He tries to throw the woman off, but his strength is divided between this place and the place where his real body lies sleeping. In this holographic form, he is too weak to fight. “I was _born_ wrong,” he says. “I never had a chance. But you aren't like me. You are a real person! You deserve better!” The woman drives her heel into Kylo's sternum, and Kylo cries out in strange, disembodied pain. Rey turns away from them, refusing to watch their struggle. “Please, listen to me!” Kylo yells. But Rey ignores him, disappearing into the undulating mouth of the black ship. The woman throws up her hands and tongues of violet lightning leap from the ends of her fingers, ripping Kylo's projected form into shreds of static, sending him flying out of the vision and back into his real body. 

 

 

-

 

 

When Kylo wakes for the second time, it's early in the morning and Hux is gone. Hux's clothes are put away, the bottle of blossom wine corked and standing on the table, all evidence of Hux's drunken fumbling scrubbed from view. Kylo gets up, pisses, stands under the sanistream for a few minutes rubbing soap into his hair, and pats some of Hux's deodorant powder under his arms. He dresses in the First Order uniform Hux had made to measure for him, and pulls his hair up into a high knot, securing it with a silver ring. He leaves their quarters and walks the halls of the space station, using the Force to divert peoples' attention away from him by suggesting that they not take notice of his scar. To their minds, he is as an anonymous First Order officer.

 

Officially, he has no actual duties related to the conference. His position in the Order is still that of a loosely affiliated mystic knight, though he is now charged with Hux's protection. Since Hux took over as Supreme Leader, Kylo hasn't been asked to do anything but guard Hux's body, a duty which mostly consists of sleeping curled around him every night and occasionally bringing him to orgasm. During the day, he is free to wander where he will, always monitoring Hux through their bond for signs of distress so that he can rush to Hux's side if necessary.

 

The station is large, and Kylo spends several hours wandering around it at a leisurely pace without even seeing a fraction of it. People hurry past him, going about their trivial business. At a certain point, he is forced to stop as the pulse of white-hot life all around him is suddenly making it hard for him to breathe. The Light is pulling at him as strongly as ever. He's just wasting time; Delaying the inevitable. He turns around and walks back the way he came, arriving a few hours later at the main conference hall. By now, it's lunchtime. The attendees are all seated at their respective tables. Hux is gone, in some meeting with his financial advisors, if Kylo remembers his schedule correctly. The filtered air is shivering with portent. Kylo reaches for the black stone, rubbing it between imaginary mental palms. He knows what he has to do. But he doesn't know if he has the strength to do it.

 

Leia is sitting alone at her table, eating a salad and drinking from a tall flute of red juice, when Kylo pulls out a chair and sits down across from her. She looks up from her plate at him. Her eyes don't widen. She felt him coming. She's not surprised.

 

“Leia,” says Kylo. “Are you able to contact Luke? It's important.”

 

She puts down her tines and dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Not easily,” she says, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

 

“I think Rey is in trouble,” says Kylo breathlessly, struggling to meet her gaze. “I had a vision.”

 

Leia frowns. “You don't have those,” she says. “Or do you, now?” She leans forward, narrowing her eyes. “I'm not up to date on all your abilities.”

 

“It wasn't a proper vision.” He shakes his head. “I travelled out of my body, to where she was. Rey didn't want me there, but I think it was her doing. I think she summoned me, because some part of her knew she was in danger.”

 

Leia sits back in her chair, considering this. “I'm not up to date on all her abilities either. But that sounds unlikely. Even if she could do such a thing, why would she summon _you?_ Are you sure it wasn't just a dream?”

 

“Yes!” says Kylo. He looks down at his hands, which lie twisting in his lap. “No,” he admits. “Not entirely sure.”

 

“Tell you what,” says Leia, taking a sip of her red juice. “I'm going to finish my salad, and then I'm going to go for a walk in the atrium.” She picks up her tines. “Would you care to join me, Kylo Ren, so that we can discuss this further?” She pronounces his name in a kind of deadpan that might be read as either mocking or coldly respectful. Kylo flinches internally. Han had called him Ben, and he had been expecting the same from her, he now realizes. It should feel like a victory, hearing her concede this crucial ground. Instead, it's strangely disappointing.

 

There's no one else in the atrium, which strikes Kylo as strange. But then, people aren't here to admire the gardens. A green glass fountain stands at the center of the large, hexagonal room, surrounded by delicate, lattice-like trees and beds of feathery blue fronds. Rivers of boiling water rush around the perimeter in black marble flumes, hanging the room with a veil of soothing, herbal vapor.

 

Leia walks through the mist, her dark blue skirts sweeping noiselessly over the red clay tile. It's so easy for Kylo to fall into step behind her, so easy to mindlessly bask in her presence – Her subtle power, her punishing Light. He has never felt anyone quite like her and Luke, always circling each other in the Force like a pair of binary suns. Like the most whole-complete-real people in the galaxy. He remembers being so jealous of them, wishing he could have had his own twin to complete him in that way. He has always felt like one half of a broken set. Feeling Leia's presence now, he wonders, for the first time ever, whether she and Luke have greatly suffered from being separated for most of their lives.

 

“He doesn't exactly carry a comlink around,” says Leia. “But now that he's no longer blocking me, I may be able to contact him through the Force. Although,” she sighs, “I think if something had happened to Rey that he couldn't handle, _he_ would already have contacted _me_.”

 

Kylo comes to a halt, sitting down on the lip of the green glass fountain. He hunches over, squeezing his hands between his thighs to stop himself from doing something stupid. “You don't believe me,” he says, his chest tightening. He is shaking with the effort of keeping himself separated from her. A part of him is wailing like an infant at feeling her presence again. A presence that used to mean comfort and safety. Before she sent him away. Before she cut him out like a tumor. Leia turns around to look at him. “It's alright,” he says. “I don't believe me either.”

 

She takes a step towards him. “Do you think it's possible that your mind might have come up with this vision,” she says carefully, “so that you could have a reason to talk to me?” She worries her hands in front of her. “I only ask because...” she sighs. “It's the kind of thing Ben would have done.”

 

Kylo buries his face in his hands. “Poe said you wanted-” He can't breathe. He can't _breathe_.

 

“Of course I do,” says Leia, softly. Her presence throbs with pain.

 

“But why?!” Kylo growls. “What could you possibly want to see me for?” He is breathing hard, emitting great puffs of carbon dioxide, his nostrils flared, his shoulders heaving. “Well?” His voice rises, cracking. “Say something! Do something! Take out your blaster and shoot me,” he pants. He contemplates the grout between the tiles. “I wouldn't try to stop you.”

 

“It's a diplomatic conference,” Leia snorts. “I'm unarmed.”

 

“Those strong in the Force,” says Kylo, “are never unarmed.”

 

Leia's expression crumples. “That's not-”

 

“Or have you truly convinced yourself you can be harmless?” Kylo cuts her off. He cants his head, examining her. “Maybe you _can_. Maybe that's really how it is for you. I've never understood how you seem to just. Pick it up and put it back down again whenever you feel like it.” He presses his lips together, his chest burning.

 

“I never knew you resented that so much,” she says. “But it seems so obvious now.”

 

Kylo rocks forward, growing angry. “At least Luke surrounded himself in the myth of the Jedi. Let ordinary people know he wasn't like them. But you. You cheat. You try to have it both ways.”

 

“I'm not the only Force-sensitive person who's ever chosen a secular occupation,” she says.

 

“But you're not just any Force-sensitive person. You're... _you!_ ” says Kylo, struggling to articulate himself. “It's not fair that you can just. Turn it on and off whenever you like.” He traps his hands between his thighs again, heat rising in his cheeks, threatening tears. “You've got Darth Vader's power in you, and you pay no price for it!”

 

Leia studies him, quietly seething. She lifts her chin sharply. “You think I've paid no price for being Darth Vader's daughter?” she rasps. “You know nothing.”

 

“No,” says Kylo. He heaves his whole body. “Don't. Do that. Don't hate me for saying something stupid.” He looks back up at her, pleading. “I killed your husband. Hate me for _that_.”

 

Leia sighs. She has become weary, constitutionally weary, in a way that no amount of rest can ever heal. Kylo wilts with the knowledge that he has done this to her. Her mind burns him with its hurt, but he can't turn away from it. A part of him is still helplessly drawn to her, responding instinctively to the promise of _home_ that seems to emanate from her in waves. He lowers his head against his chest, awaiting her judgement. She hands it down: “I don't hate you. I could never hate you.  If I held you responsible for all the things you did while you were under Snoke's influence,” she says gravely, “I don't think I'd ever be able to look at you again. But I don't. I don't know if that's for your benefit or mine. But I can't. I can't believe that it was all your fault alone.”

 

“If someone killed my Love,” he says, his throat straining against the passage of air, “I'd never forgive them.”

 

“Your Love?” she asks, startled. She narrows her eyes, unable to conceal her disgust. “Hux?”

 

“Yes,” says Kylo. “He's. Everything to me now. You wouldn't understand.”

 

“I wouldn't understand?” she repeats, her tone incredulous.

 

“You were-” he winces. “You and Han Solo were apart for so much of the time. Hux and I are. Always together. And we always will be. I'm not like you. I need constant-” he swallows. “Hux gives me what I need.”

 

“Does he?” She gives him a sad, distant look, her voice wavering for the first time since the beginning of this impossible conversation. Gathering her skirts, she walks over and sits down beside him on the lip of the fountain. “You seem... well,” she says, meeting his gaze. He stares into her eyes, unable to look away. They are his own eyes, he knows. She will always be his first, his purest, most reflective mirror. Hot tears are pouring down his face. She puts a hand over her mouth. “I was afraid-” she shudders. “I thought.” She shakes her head, banishing whatever it was she thought. “But you seem well.”

 

Kylo frantically wipes at his face, leaving a comet tail of snot and tears across his sleeve. Hux had these clothes specially made for him. He won't be pleased. “We're getting married,” Kylo blurts. “You should come.”

 

“What?!” asks Leia, turning pale.

 

Kylo looks away from her, searching the ring of trees. “That's not true,” he says, drooping, if possible, even lower. “I just made it up because I want it to be true. But maybe, now that the war is over.” He stoops to pick a leaf up off the ground, twirling it by the stem between his forefinger and thumb. “Maybe I'll ask him. And if he says yes...” He looks back at Leia. “You can come. I mean, only if you want to,” he adds quickly. “I know you probably hate him. But you've been meeting with him all week, so that's... I don't know. Something.”

 

“I don't hate him,” says Leia. She laughs. Kylo recognizes this laugh as the one she uses so that she won't cry. “I thought I did, at first,” she says. “But now, all I can think is... He's someone's son, too.”

 

Kylo frowns. “You mean the Commandant?”

 

“Well, he had a mother, didn't he?” asks Leia.

 

“I don't know,” says Kylo. “He's never spoken of her.”

 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, absorbing the perfumed mist. Kylo can sense that Leia wants to hold him. But she will never be the one to ask. She will never make herself vulnerable to him in that way. His heart aches. He wants her to hold him-- but more than that, he wants her to ask.

 

“Can I tell you a story,” asks Leia, “about my father?” Kylo nods, not trusting himself to speak without sobbing. “You know he was there,” she continues, “on the first Death Star. He stood behind me as I was forced to watch the destruction of Alderaan. I've told you all that before. But what I haven't told you,” she pauses, squeezing her eyes shut, “is that he put his hand on my shoulder. At the time, if I thought about it at all, I guess I probably thought he was restraining me, so I wouldn't attack Tarkin. But you know what I think now?” She doesn't wait for Kylo to answer. “I think he was just looking for me to comfort him in some way. I think he was afraid.” She smooths her hands over her lap. “I know you watched the destruction of the Hosnian System,” she says. She has a way of stating such things so simply. “I know there was no one there to comfort you. I know you were afraid.” She raises an eyebrow. “Your, ah... _fiancé_  there, was otherwise occupied at the time. I don't imagine he was bringing you much solace.”

 

“I'm in love with him,” says Kylo. He straightens his spine, adamant about this point, if nothing else. “Maybe it's wrong, I don't know. But it's the first feeling I've ever had that seemed like it was truly my own. It came from inside of me. No one else put it there. It's everything to me. It's all I have that's mine.” He is openly weeping. “I'm sorry if that makes us enemies.”

 

“The war is over,” says Leia, blotting at her eyes, which have begun to well. “That's what I came here to accomplish. I didn't come to make him 'pay' or anything like that. If the two of you are in love... Well, I'm not going to ask you to try and 'get through to him,' because I don't even know what that would mean. But. The galaxy is a mess, and none of us has a lot of options. We aren't going to accomplish much as enemies. If you want to help rebuild, if you want to help stop what happened to the Hosnian System from ever happening again, then you are both my allies.”

 

Kylo gets up, giving her an abortive little bow. “Thank you, Leia,” he says. “I'm glad we. This was. Good.” He turns, retreating into the veil of mist.

 

“Ben, wait.” Leia calls after him. She stands, her shoulders slack, tears spilling over at last. “Can I...?” He freezes, his heart beating so hard it hurts. _She's gotten so small_ , he thinks, as her arms close around his waist. _No. I've gotten so big._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr:  
> [theeascetic.tumblr.com](http://theeascetic.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

They slip away from the celebration and into the woods with a bottle of Corellian rum, bonfires flickering and voices echoing behind them. In a clearing beneath the stars, Leia drags Han to the ground and they roll together in the mild green grass, their skin heating, their hearts fluttering, their victory so new. Han gulps, the breath knocked out of him, laughing as he recovers.

 

“Here?” he asks, pulling a face.

 

Leia straddles him, taking a swig of the rum before tossing the bottle away into the grass. “Yes,” she says. “Why not?” She tugs at his clothes. “We're alive.”

 

“Sure are,” he groans, as her hands roam over his chest. He hooks her by the waist as she leans down to kiss him, the shroud of her hair descending like night over them both, trapping their rum-flavored breath. She rocks against him, kissing the crooked bridge of his nose, the ridge of his brow, so grateful for the chance to feel his presence. So used to loss, so in awe of having found him again. The loamy breath of the Forest Moon seeps up all around her, life itself filling her lungs, and before Leia knows what she's doing she's reaching out to Han through the dense emerald air, longing for him to share in it. The last time she held him like this he was quailing beneath her, clammy, and larval, and blind, his mouth grey with carbon. She slides her palms over his ribs, thinking of all she wants to give him, willing life, and love, and pleasure into him--

 

Han cries out, his body spasming beneath her. “What's wrong?” asks Leia, rubbing concerned circles against his chest. He presses insensibly into her touch, his eyes rolling back, his lips working mutely. “Han!” Leia calls, cupping his face. “Say something!”

 

“Baby, _please_ \--” he chokes out, grasping blindly for her. He arches his back against the ground, seizing fistfuls of her skirts where they drape over him. “What--?” He shuts his eyes against the sensations rushing into him. “What _is_ it--?” he tries to ask. “What are you--?”

 

Panicking, she tears her hands away from him as though from a heating element and he relaxes, panting, his head lolling, his moist lower lip hanging slack. “I'm sorry--” she stammers, her eyes widening in horror. “I did something to you,” she says. She climbs off of him, putting a meter or so of distance between them, and folds her legs beneath her, sitting down in the grass. “With the Force. I touched you with the Force. I'm sorry.”

 

Han tucks his chin, peering over his heaving chest at her, his pupils blown wide. “Leia--” he croaks, beating his fists against the ground. “That was-- Kriffing hells!” He hauls himself into a sitting position and scrubs a shaking hand over his face. When he looks back at her, his eyes are welling with tears. “You mean to tell me...” He takes a deep breath, puffing his cheeks, releasing it with a long, anxious whistle. “ _That_ was the Force?”

 

Leia shrugs the rope of her hair over one shoulder so that it pools in her lap, worrying the end of it with both hands. “It's real, Han,” she says. “Luke tried to show me.” She shakes her head. “At first I didn't really believe him, when he told me it was with me. But he was right. I can feel it. I think... I always could. I just didn't recognize it for what it was.”

 

“You didn't do anything like that before, though,” says Han, rubbing the back of his neck. She can feel his pulse hammering, even from where she sits. He's afraid.

 

“That's because it was lying dormant, I think,” she says. “But now it's... You know how once you notice something for the first time you start seeing it everywhere?” His brow scrunches, uncomprehending. “It won't happen again,” she promises, fisting her hands in the tender grass beneath her skirts where he can't see them. “Hey,” she says, sobering. “I'm really sorry.”

 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he shrugs, absently stroking the grass. “It was just a little unexpected, that's all.” He flashes her a grin, or tries too, still flushed and short of breath. “You didn't do anything like that back on Cloud City.”

 

“I've never been with anyone else,” she confesses suddenly. “On Cloud City... That was my first time.”

 

Han's lips part in wonder and he sits up all the way. “ _Leia_ ,” he rasps. “Aw hells. I didn't know.”

 

“That's because I didn't _want_ you to know,” she retorts, unclenching her firsts. She can relax, now. Han is alright. “I really... I tried to act like I knew what I was doing.” She chews her lip, a playful lark stealing over her, peering at him from behind the curtain of her hair. “I guess you were fooled, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I sure was. You certainly didn't have any trouble letting me know what you wanted,” he laughs. “I can't believe...” He shakes his head. “I can't believe I was your first.”

 

“Well,” she says, a little defensive. “It's never exactly been all that easy for me to meet people.”

 

“Because you're a princess?” he smiles. “Didn't you meet people all the time?”

 

“Sure,” she says, “everyone always wanted me...” She rolls her eyes. “But they didn't _actually_ want me, you know what I mean? They wanted the idea of me. I'd meet other kids and state dinners and balls and they'd flirt with me all night. But then whenever I tried to take them to bed...” She smirks. “They'd all chicken out.” Her eyes widen. “Oh no,” she says, putting a hand on Han's knee. “I didn't mean to imply that you-- That you were chickening out just now. That's not at all what I meant.”

 

“Hey, hey, it's fine,” he waves her off. “I'm not even necessarily opposed to having, uh...” He swallows, his eye drawn to the hand that rests on his knee. “Magic mumbo-jumbo sex. You've just gotta warn me next time, that's all. So I can... ya know. Prepare myself.”

 

“Han,” she sighs. “You don't have to do that.” She hold his gaze. “We can wait. I can learn how to control it. Next time we do it, I'll make sure it feels... normal for you.”

 

He pauses, seeming to weigh this, rubbing his chest in memory of the sensations. “But what if I told you I really wanted it? That way, I mean. With all the...” His breath catches, color rising in his face. She can feel his elevated pulse, but she's not certain what it means. She tries... _reading_ him. He still seems a little bit scared. But he's also... stirred. What she did to him-- He _liked_ it. “It didn't hurt,” he says, as though reading her back. Is he? “It was just... A lot to take all at once.” He makes a kind of queasy, hemming expression that means he's being sincere and therefore vulnerable. “But it felt _really_ good.”

 

“Han,” she admonishes him. “We have to be careful with this. I don't know what I'm doing.”

 

“I trust you,” he says, crawling towards her over the velvet-slick moss, his voice low and soft. Cautious and flinching, Leia places her hand against the side of his face. He nuzzles it, closing his eyes, his stubble rasping against her small palm. “I've heard the stories,” he says, “about Vader. About how he could kill somebody just by looking at them.”

 

Leia shudders. “It's true,” she says. “He really could. And so can Luke.” She doesn't finish the triad, isn't ready to fully believe it.

 

Han turns his face, kissing the center of her palm. “The way I see it is this:” he says, leaning back on his haunches and leveling himself with her. “If I've gotta live in a galaxy with people who can kill me just by looking at me... If there's really no way around it... Then I'm sure as hell glad one of them is Luke, and one of them is you.”

 

Leia wraps her arms around his neck, lacing her hands at the base of his skull and studying his soft mouth. “You know I would never--” she says. “Luke would never-- Neither of us would ever use it to hurt you. Only to protect you.”

 

“Of course,” he breathes, overwhelmed. “Look, you don't have to convince me. When you... used it on me, just now. I think... I think somehow I could actually feel...” His voice wavers.

 

“My love for you,” says Leia. “That's what you felt.” Han crumples, pushing the crown of his head against her shoulder. He can't speak. He already knows.

 

 

-

 

 

Leia wakes up crying.

 

She climbs out of bed, splashes some cold water on her face, scrubs her teeth and braids her hair. She has another meeting with Hux today, about the possibility of normalizing trade relations. In her experience, this is the kind of process that can take years, but the First Order doesn't have that long. Hux is desperate, and getting worse and worse at hiding it. She is confident in her ability to obtain favorable terms from him.

 

Other matters, she is somewhat less than confident about. Every night since she and Ben spoke, she has made an attempt to contact Luke through the Force, and each night, she has failed. In the aftermath of Han's death, Luke had reached out to her along their bond for the first time in years, sharing in her grief and lending her some of his strength. Now, it seems, he's gone right back to blocking her. It's hurtful to be sure, but she can't tell whether or not it's a cause for concern. She avoids her own red-eyed reflection in the 'fresher mirror, pinning her braids to her head by memory. Hux was half-drunk the last time they met, and made no real effort to hide it. Part of her thinks: If he's not going to bother trying to maintain the facade of civilization, why should she? But she puts some earrings in anyway. She's not going to let him turn this into a complete farce just yet. She picks up her datapad from the bedside table, giving her notes a quick glance before tucking it under her arm and venturing forth.

 

Thanisson is waiting for her in the conference hall, as usual. Leia doesn't know why he still needs to give her an escort; She can find Hux's office just fine on her own at this point. There seems to be some byzantine system of First Order etiquette at work, which Hux and his staff are only half-observing. Or maybe it's just Hux's own ad hoc sense of pageantry. Unmoored as the First Order is from tradition, it's hard to say. Hux makes a great show of certain things and completely neglects others, as if being Supreme Leader is just a bit he's trying out. He doesn't seem to have the heart to fully commit to it. For all that Leia was prepared to hate the General Hux she remembers from countless holo recordings, meeting her adversary in person has been even more disturbing in some ways than she could have imagined. Far from the determined, ruthless, military genius she has heard so much about, Hux is petulant, fickle, and depressive. It says a lot about the First Order, she thinks, that such a person could ascend to the head of it. Most of their sessions consist of him sniping at her and stringing her along for hours, only to concede almost everything in the end, as if he doesn't actually care about the outcome. Flashes of confusion and pain slip past his mental shields whenever his mind wanders away from their immediate conversation. It's clear to Leia that he is profoundly unwell, and her heart aches for the people who must do his arbitrary bidding. It all reminds her of something her father (her real father, Bail Organa) once told her: The hallmark of tyranny is not order, but chaos.

 

Thanisson marches her down the same by-now familiar hallway, stopping and turning to bow in front of the same pneumatic door. “General Organa,” he says as usual, his eyes alert and fearful as though worried she might strike him. Satisfied he's done his (rather useless) duty, he turns to leave.

 

“Wait,” says Leia. He whips around like a started deer. She smiles at him, keeping her gaze level and her hands where he can see them. “We keep meeting each other like this, but we haven't really spoken. There's something I've wanted to ask you.”

 

“Ma'am?” he croaks.

 

He's so afraid. Afraid in a way that's unnatural, abiding-- carefully taught. A cold lump of sorrow settles in her throat. She feels moved to comfort him in some way, but can't even begin to know how. “How do you feel about the war being over?” she asks him.

 

He glances around, swallowing dryly, worried this is some sort of test. “I just don't know...” he begins. She sends him a soothing bubble of thought. His posture relaxes as he falls under her influence-- Something gentler than a mind trick, her own preferred method. “I mean- I just don't know what's going to happen to us now. With no war, we'll have no use.”

 

She wants to say he doesn't need one, but she's worried this will only make him feel worse. She doesn't know how to explain it to him in a way he's likely to understand. “Don't worry,” she says. “I'm sure you'll find something.” She regrets this conversation already. There's an extent to which she's become quite good at mentoring young people. But the young soldiers, and pilots, and medics who look up to her are all confident and dedicated to the Resistance. She doesn't know what to say to someone who isn't even sure why they exist.

 

“Thank you, Ma'am,” says Thanisson, before frowning to himself as though suddenly remembering why they're supposed to be enemies. He bows again, taking his leave and Leia presses the call button outside Hux's office, cursing herself. The door whispers open, and she steps over the threshold, stumbling a bit in surprise. Hux is nowhere to be seen, but Ben is seated on one the of the settees in full garb, his hair in a high knot, the stole of black fur covering his shoulders. He blinks up at her, aggressively squeezing his hands between his thighs. She must have been extremely distracted, to have missed his presence. The impression he makes in the Force is so singular: a splashing pool of mercury, reflective droplets ceaselessly beading, and rolling, and recombining-- leaping with rainbows, like a puddle of spilled fuel.

 

“Leia,” he says. “Please. Sit.” He lowers his chin against his chest, chewing the insides of his cheeks.

 

She walks around the back of the other settee and sits down across from him, never breaking eye contact. The air conditioning in here seems even more oppressive than usual. She should have worn a more substantial cloak. Ben, at least, looks snug in his heavy armor weave and furs. “Where's Hux?” she asks, though she can sense his nearness, now that she's paying attention.

 

“In the 'fresher,” says Ben, nodding over his shoulder. “He spilled his caf everywhere.” He indicates the low table between them. The white cloth that was draped over it the last time Leia was here is balled up on the floor near Ben's feet. When she inclines her neck, she can see herself reflected in the table's black, metallic surface. Her braids, she realizes, are asymmetrically pinned. Ben hunches intently, watching her watch herself.

 

Still leaning forward, the loops of her hair falling over her ears, Leia glances up at him. “I've heard you can catch blaster bolts in mid air,” she says. “But you couldn't catch his falling caf?”

 

“That's not how it works.” Ben props himself with his forearms over his thighs. “I can't always just-- I have to be ready for it.” He sniffs, his mouth drawing up like a dormant flower. He's ashamed of this, Leia realizes. He wants her to be impressed by his abilities. They are his life's labor. He has nothing else to present her with now, but what he as made of himself.

 

She straightens, crossing her arms. “'Prince of the Alderaanian Diaspora?'” she quotes, pursing her lips.

 

He looks down at the table. “Hux told them to say that,” he says, watching himself form the words in its surface. “It was supposed to be. Some sort of. Power play, I don't know.” He looks up at her again. “He thinks he has to beat you. But now that the war is over, he doesn't know what the contest is anymore.”

 

Leia laughs. “I don't think he'd be pleased to hear you telling me this.” Ben flinches, as if the idea of modulating himself in front of their negotiating opponent hadn't even occurred to him. Leia decides to press her luck: “Why did he bring you this time?”

 

“Bring me?” Ben frowns. “He didn't 'bring' me. I told him I wanted to come.”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “Because you're suddenly so interested in politics? Why didn't you come to any of our previous meetings, then?”

 

He rocks forward, energized. “I was afraid that seeing you might--” Without actually manifesting, a smile flutters briefly at the corners of his mouth. “But it _didn't_.”

 

“Afraid it might what?” she asks, a bit more angrily than she intends to. “What were you afraid of?” An absurd question. His reasons for avoiding her are obvious. His decision to stop avoiding her is in far greater need of an explanation. But Leia is so tired of having to fill in the blanks with him. She wants to hear him state the obvious.

 

“I've made a lot of. Progress,” he says, his eyes glittering. “On my own.” His jaw quivers. “I was afraid of losing it. Of going back to the way I was before.”

 

This is not at all what Leia was expecting to hear. She slides to the edge of her seat, bracing a bewildered hand against the table. “Before?” she asks softly. “Before what?”

 

He tosses his head suggestively. “ _Before_.”

 

“I see.” She nods. She doesn't, really. “And what are you hoping to accomplish today?” He squints at her, confused. “As I understand it, this is to be the first in a series of trade negotiations,” she says. “So: Why have you decided to participate? What are you hoping to get out of them?”

 

Ben looks strangely wounded. “I don't have a--” He struggles. “I just--” He takes a deep breath, kneading his thighs with his middle knuckles and studying her reflection in the table. The black metal swallows the colors, lending her image a frosty, graphite luster. “I just want to be free of suffering,” he says, after a while. “I've made progress,” he adds quickly, noticing the way her eyes widen at this. He drags a pensive tongue across his lips. “So I'm... already getting what I want. Things are... good, for me. The way the world is now...” He looks around the room, his shoulders loose. “I like it.”

 

Leia swiftly quashes the urge to reach out and touch him. Now is not the time. This whole conference has been highly irregular, but they are still meeting, first and foremost, in a diplomatic capacity. “Everyone wants the same thing,” she says, adopting a cooler tone. “They don't want to suffer. They want to flourish. That's why we're here. To build a world where flourishing is more likely, for more people.” She presses her lips together dryly. “Can you understand why that's important?” Ben opens his mouth as if to speak before closing it again. He searches Leia's face, slipping tentative, quicksilver fingers against the surface of her mind. He seems so lucid, so present. She hardly trusts herself to evaluate him. It scares her, how eager she is to believe in this 'progress' he claims to have made, as if it could somehow fix everything. She thinks of what it must have taken to get him to this point. She feels a stab of blind jealousy that Hux of all people was able to accomplish what she couldn't, and then a breathless wash of gratitude that it was accomplished at all.

 

In her old senatorial apartment on Chandrila, she used to sit on a rotating stool before a large, wall-mounted mirror, combing out her hair. It reached her thighs in those days, and always needed careful detangling before being re-braided. She would often practice her speeches in front of the mirror, lifting her chin and glowering at herself as if at some imaginary political opponent. Ben would sit at her feet, playing with her balms and rouges, scribbling on the backs of his arms with her kohls. She could sometimes hear him repeating her words under his breath, insensible of their meaning. She would reach down and gather him into her lap. _This bill is to help people who need medicine_ , she would try to explain, sending him a feeling of compassion, of justice, of weariness, of work-to-be-done. He would smile up at her, his wide, dark eyes uncomprehending, blank. Not clouded with confusion, but transparent, frictionless, empty. He would send her feelings back to her-- Unprocessed, unread, just flipped around, like her reflection in the glass.

 

She always tried her best to oblige him in those days, but his blank gaze would become overwhelming at times, and she would shrink away from it, reflexively trying to conceal herself. _Ben_ , she would say, holding him as he thrashed and screamed, an inconsolable blur of spittle and teeth, sending her phials of oil and perfume skipping across the floor. _I love you, I love you_ , she would chant over and over as his small fists tore at her hair, as his mind howled it's wordless determination to kill them both before it would ever release her. _But I need to be alone with my own thoughts sometimes_ , she would plead with him. _Can you understand why that's important?_

 

Now, in Hux's office, Ben looks at Leia and seems, at last, to actually see her. He closes his eyes and Leia has the sense of a kind of rigid plate sliding into place, a kind of pane or filter. While still being able to perceive her, he is carefully shielding himself from her Light. Her heart clenches as she recognizes the work of the Dark Side in what he is doing. But she has never seen it used in this way. By erecting this barrier between them, he is protecting them both, allowing them to interact without the danger of him drinking too deeply of her presence. His eyes are clouded with confusion-- With intention, with effort, with the will to understand. “I think--” He starts to speak, but before he can tell her what he thinks, Hux is in the room.

 

“General Organa,” Hux is saying as he strolls towards them, his immaculate, cream-colored suit showing no signs of a caf spill. He's changed clothes. This seems to be a matter of the utmost priority with him. For all that she's watched him deteriorate over the last several weeks, Leia has never once seen Hux looking anything less than impeccably dressed. “Forgive my tardiness,” he says, sitting down on the settee beside Ben and crossing his legs. “Let's begin.”

 

“Yes,” says Leia. “Let's.” She props her datapad on her lap and starts swiping through some of her notes. “We are in the same place we were last week,” she sighs. “I'm afraid there won't be any forward motion on a trade agreement until the matter of inspection can be settled.” Hux makes a haughty noise of derision.

 

“Inspection?” Ben asks, looking between Hux and Leia. “What's that?”

 

Hux turns to look at Ben as though just now noticing his presence. Ben was right, Leia gathers. Hux didn't 'bring' him at all. In fact, he seems exasperated by Ben's sudden desire to participate in the negotiations. “I'm sure I've explained this to you,” he huffs.

 

“You haven't,” says Ben, plaintively.

 

Hux reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. “You probably weren't paying attention,” he says. He clicks his fire wand, grumbling in frustration when it doesn't light, and shakes it before clicking it again, succeeding on the second try. _You're always reading me, but never listening to me_ , he thinks, loudly. If Leia didn't know any better, she'd say the projection was deliberate.

 

Ben flinches.

 

Leia tries to follow the obscure psychic interplay occurring between them, but before she can glean any more, Ben has drawn his dark veil around them both, wrapping them up together in its velvet folds. Insulating their bond against the outside world. And they _are_ bonded, it's clear. She wonders at this, weighing her own feelings, these spheres of lead in her gut. Of course she prefers to see Ben with a man-- a man his own age, a proper companion, whose attentions seem to ease his suffering, whose capacity to do him harm is-- at least --limited to the more conventional, mortal domain. Of course this is an infinite improvement. But what a distinction to have to make. It's extremely difficult for her to wrap her mind around the idea that Hux is, comparatively, a _good influence_. And yet...

 

She addresses herself to Ben, trying, for what it's worth, to make him feel included: “Hux has agreed never to pursue the construction of another Starkiller,” she explains. “It was a condition of the treaty we both signed. In fact, it was _the_ condition. Establishing trust in this area will create a necessary foundation for all future dealings between us. Without that trust, we are at in impasse.”

 

“Trust,” says Hux. He pauses dramatically, hollowing his cheeks and shooting a geyser of blue smoke high into the air above their heads. He turns to Ben, giving his shoulder an intimate nudge. “ _Trust_ , she's calling it,” he stage whispers. “Forgive me, General,” he says, conspicuously refusing to look at her, his gaze still intent on Ben's earlobe. “But isn't what you're talking about the exact opposite of that?”

 

“And this is where we got stuck last week,” Leia tells Ben. “Hux wants us to just take his word for it that he's abiding by the agreement. He refuses submit to inspection. In fact,” she consults her notes, quoting them back, “he called the very idea of it a 'rank violation of the First Order's sovereignty.'”

 

“Because that's what it _is_ ,” says Hux, baring an edge of teeth. “How many worlds became vassal states of the Old Republic in precisely the same way?” he asks Ben rhetorically, rummaging under the table for his dropped plastone cup and tapping his ashes into it. “She makes it sound so reasonable, doesn't she? But it always sounds reasonable in the beginning.” He plants both feet on the floor, squaring his shoulders. “Why should I just take _her_ word for anything, hmm? Why are we assuming _I'm_ the one who can't be trusted?”

 

“This isn't about you, Hux,” Leia snaps. She is so tired of talking in circles with this vicious, wounded, cornered man, so tired of wasting valuable time. “It's not about impugning your personal character. You already know that. You know this is the only way forward. You're stalling for time, looking for a way out, because you still think you have to beat me. But there's no contest. There's nothing left to win. We've reached the end. We're starting over.” She looks at Ben. “The sovereignty of the First Order ends where the rest of the galaxy's right to not be annihilated begins,” she says. “This point is not up for debate. This is the one matter on which I will never, ever compromise. Hux already knows that. We have discussed it,” she sighs, “ _at length_.”

 

Hux looks murderous. His eyes are wide disks of oxidized copper green against the fever-pink of his cheeks. “That's a lot of neat rhetoric,” he says icily. “Very clever. Who does she think she's talking to?”

 

Ben bolts up from the settee, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and backs away from the table. Hux and Leia look up at him and he glances anxiously between them. “Why do you both keep talking to _me?_ ” he cries. “I'm not here to. Mediate this.” He crosses his arms over his chest like he's cradling a wound.

 

“Well...” Hux purses his lips, dousing his cigarette in the still-moist bottom of his cup and setting it down on the table with a metallic clang. “That raises the question: Why _are_ you here? Why did you want to come along so badly?”

 

Ben shrinks into himself even further. He thirstily watches the curve of Hux's mouth, avoiding Hux's eyes. “To be near you,” he says, his voice almost painfully soft. “Both of you.” He looks at the floor, inclining his long nose towards his shoulder, and then back up again, pleading. “It feels good,” he says. “I just want. Less pain and. More of this. I like this!” For a minute, no one speaks. Only the implacable hum of that thrice-damned air conditioning unit mars the silence.

 

“Ben,” says Leia, scarcely vocalizing at all, the syllable of his name little more than a press of lips and a puff of breath. “There's not going to _be_ any more of this if we can't sustain the peace. This will be over.”

 

“Hux,” says Ben. He looks wild-eyed, stricken. “Hux, give her what she wants.”

 

“What?” Hux balks.

 

Ben takes a zealous step back towards him. “It doesn't cost you anything,” he says. “You're not going to build another Starkiller anyway, are you? You said yourself it was a waste. You said you regretted it.” He reaches out to take Hux by the hand, and Hux swats him away, surging to his feet. Anger and betrayal are rolling off of Hux at pounding, subwoofer frequencies. “Just give her what she wants,” Ben repeats.

 

Hux looks like he's about to cry. He's terrified, Leia realizes. Terrified of _Ben_. He staggers, the edge of the settee cutting him off at the knees when he tries to retreat. His eyes are trained on Ben's face as he shakes his head minutely in what might be refusal or might be denial of reality. “Or what?” he asks, reddening, his voice pinched. “Will you _make_ me?”

 

Ben makes a weak, kittenish grab for him, his lower-lip trembling, and Hux pulls further away. “My Love,” he mouths. “No, don't. Think that. I would never--”

 

“You don't tell me what to think,” Hux seethes. “You don't know what you're talking about. You can't just come in here and tell _me_ \--” His shoulders are heaving, a prominent vein in his forehead leaping with his shallow pulse. Panting, he straightens himself, running both his hands over the front of his pristine jacket. Without another word, he turns on his heel, disappearing into the rooms behind the office from whence he came. The pneumatic door shuts after him with a hiss.

 

Ben collapses onto the settee, driving the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Leia,” he rasps, without uncovering them. “You have to leave.” She doesn't move at first, stunned out of action by what she's just witnessed. Ben grabs one of the decorative pillows from behind him and presses it against is face to muffle his screams. Quickly abandoning this tack, he throws it on the floor and stands up, tilting his head back and screaming at the ceiling. Leia watches, disturbed, as he careens and thrashes in place, using the Force to flip the black metal table and send it hurling across the room with a blood-stopping clatter. He flings the settee, its dark wood frame splintering against the wall. He is large, Leia thinks, even larger than she took him to be, large and sweaty. She holds herself perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe as she waits for his tantrum to be over. She is more afraid for him than of him; But she is not unafraid. He turns to look at her, an eerie calm abruptly stealing over him. “You told me we wouldn't have to be enemies,” he says, trance-like. “I don't want us to be. But you made him angry at me.”

 

Leia tucks her datapad under her arm, getting up to leave. “I didn't make him anything. Your romantic troubles are not my responsibility,” she says. “There is so much more at stake here than either of you seems capable of appreciating.” She frowns, softening. “You should probably go talk to him,” she offers. “He seems pretty upset.” Ben won't look at her. Wrapping her light cloak around her upper arms, she quietly sees herself out.

 

 

-

 

After a brief lunch, Leia goes for her usual walk in the atrium. It's not as relaxing as being planetside, but she likes the simulacrum of natural humidity created by the steamy, perfumed air. She barely touched the spiced yams and rice they were serving, but rationalizes this by resolving to eat more later, at dinner. A part of her knows that this is getting out of hand, that she should probably see a doctor. Any day now, Poe will notice how thin she's gotten, if he hasn't already, and she the last thing she wants is to worry him. But it's hard to make time for such things as her health at the end of the world.

 

General Ebele Nai is waiting in the atrium to greet her. She is seated on the lip of the green fountain, drumming impatient nails against the datapad in her lap as she waits for device to process something. Nai has proven invaluable in furnishing Leia with the information that has enabled her to anticipate Hux's moves and call his frequent bluffs. Though Hux had tried to downplay the severity of the supply shortages, Nai had given Leia the truth. In the wake of Hux's coup, many of the czars responsible for the First Order's finances had disappeared. Fear of Snoke's mysterious powers had always kept them in line, but Hux, even with Kylo Ren's support, didn't impress them. As soon as they realized what was happening, Nai explained, they had drained the currency reserves and vanished to the Outer Rim to spend their new fortunes on Hutt luxuries. Hux's own officers remained loyal to him, but his control over the First Order at large was extremely tenuous. In only a few short months, he had survived three separate, unrelated assassination attempts. Two where thwarted by Kylo Ren, Hux's mystic guardian and nearly constant companion. One, Nai recounted with some satisfaction, had been foiled by Nai herself. Armed with the knowledge of just how dire his situation had actually become, Leia was finally able to berate Hux into signing the peace. Though naturally, she took care to protect her source, making it seem to Hux that she had gleaned all these things on her own.

 

“How'd it go today?” Nai asks her, without looking up.

 

Leia sits down beside her. “It went,” she says. “It sure went.”

 

“What happened?” Nai squints.

 

“There was an altercation,” Leia explains. “Not between Hux and me. Between him and Kylo Ren.”

 

“Ren was there?” Nai looks confused. “For what?” Delayed comprehension passes over her face. “Oh, Stars!” she exclaims. “I almost forgot. He's your--” She stops herself, touching her lips with a genteel hand. “Sorry, it's just... Pretty amazing to think about.”

 

Leia raises an eyebrow. “There was obviously a lot of pre-existing tension between them,” she says. “When Kylo Ren...” She slumps fractionally, releasing a breath. “When _my son_ seemed to take my side on the inspection issue, Hux stormed out of the room before we had a chance to accomplish anything.”

 

Nai puts down her datapad, her lips parting softly. “He's getting worse,” she says, more to herself than to Leia. “Had Hux been drinking?” she asks. They've only met a couple of times, but already Leia has found Nai to be a singular character. She is supremely poised and glamorous, without being, exactly, beautiful. Her gaze is a darting knife, behind which Leia senses a voraciously curious mind. She is fiercely loyal to Hux, and yet she seems to consider it her duty to undermine him. Leia wonders, somewhat guiltily, what kind of a Republican she might have made.

 

“Just caf,” says Leia. She frowns to herself. “But he spilled it, he-- His hands were shaking.” She feels a flash of insight. “He was hopped up on stims.”

 

“Sounds about right,” says Nai.

 

“This is normal for him?” asks Leia.

 

“It didn't used to be.” Nai scans the trees. “You know, people are loyal to him for a reason,” she says. “Maybe it's hard for you to imagine, but he was the kind of commander people were proud to serve under.”

 

“I understand that he has his followers,” says Leia. “He wouldn't have been in any position to oust Snoke otherwise. That's obvious. What I don't understand is why he seems so determined to sabotage himself. He's not stupid. He knows cooperating with me is in his best interest right now if he wants to hold on to power.”

 

“I'm not sure he does,” says Nai, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

“You don't think he knows that?” Leia snorts. “Then why is he here in the first place?”

 

“No,” says Nai. “I mean, I'm not sure he wants to hold on to power.”

 

Leia considers this. It sounds bizarre, but Nai hasn't been wrong about Hux yet, so Leia is inclined to take her seriously. “What do you mean?” she asks. “Why the coup, then? Why any of this?”

 

Nai puts her datapad aside, seeming to debate with herself for a moment. “I guess at this point it doesn't really matter if I tell you,” she sighs. “Look, none of this was exactly planned. Hux didn't oust Snoke. Not really, not on purpose. It was Kylo Ren.”

 

Leia's chest aches. “He turned against Snoke... himself?” she asks. “Hux didn't prompt him?”

 

Nai shrugs. “Hux wasn't all that forthcoming about it at first, but the drinking has loosened his tongue. He's told me things he probably didn't intend to--” She grimaces. “Whether I wanted to hear them or not. As far as I understand it, Ren chased Snoke out of First Order space, because Snoke wanted to make Hux a sacrifice in some kind of dark Force ritual and Ren wouldn't let him. Hux survived, got Ren on his side, declared himself Supreme Leader, and tried to pretend like he'd done it all on purpose.” She shakes her head. “So there you have it,” she says. “The inglorious history of the new regime so far.”

 

“Do you know how long they've been in a relationship?” Leia asks, trying to make her interest sound tactical. To some extent at least, it is.

 

“I have no idea,” says Nai. “But I'm pretty sure Ren approached Hux and not the other way around. I guess Ren wanted Snoke out, but he didn't want to be Supreme Leader himself, so he helped install Hux instead? I can't say I really understand the way Ren thinks. He's an odd guy. No offense.”

 

Leia rests her chin against her knuckles. “I don't think my son has much of a policy agenda in mind,” she says. “But I think, in his own way, he has a stake in maintaining the peace.”

 

“Then your job should be easy,” says Nai. “You want Hux to agree to inspections? All you have to do is wait. Maybe Ren will talk him into it. I can try, but I don't know if Hux will listen to me. Either way, Hux will have to give in at some point. Unless he decides to do something crazy. Can't rule that out.” Distracted, she picks her datapad back up, tapping something into it. “Sorry, I guess I don't have much to offer you this time around,” she says.

 

“You're probably right,” says Leia. “It's probably just a matter of waiting him out.” She stands up from the fountain, rolling her stiff shoulders. “I can't say patience has ever been a particular virtue of mine.”

 

“I'm the opposite,” Nai offers. Leia wonders, not for the first time, at her strange familiarity. It may or may not be some sort of angle. “I'm good at waiting,” says Nai. “But bad at knowing when to act, maybe. I have a tendency to over-think things.” She narrows her eyes as though straining to read something in the drapes of mist. “For instance, I've been thinking a lot about time,” she says. “About the way history creates us, while at the same time, we create it. Maybe that sounds trite to you. I guess you Republicans must be really sophisticated about these things. You have whole classes of people whose only job is to think about them.”

 

“Well,” Leia grants, “the Empire had it's intellectuals.”

 

“But the First Order doesn't,” says Nai. “Not anymore. Not in the same way.” A kind of grave enthusiasm seizes her. “There's something missing. Something's been stolen from us, and we feel the lack of it. Even Hux, even if he thinks he doesn't. We don't have a past. Not in the same way as you do. It's made us brittle. It's limited what we're able to imagine.” She chews at the corner of her thumb, gazing anxiously up at Leia. Perhaps expecting Leia to turn her over to some authority for saying these things. “I've been thinking about what kind of person I might have been, if I'd grown up in the Republic,” she continues. “Probably nobody, right? A spice-addled slum-dweller on Hosnian Prime, until Hux put me out of my misery. But let's say I'm one of the few. Let's say I've got money. What if I'm a writer of useless, decadent books? What if I live in a gorgeous apartment and sit in the salon all day drinking the finest creme-caf and eating imported pears and getting paid to complain about the Senate? That seems like the pinnacle of existence to me.” She laughs, rattled. “You _know_ people like that don't you, General Organa? Tell me: Are they happy? Do they know they're winning the whole game?”

 

“Some know it better than others,” Leia equivocates. She can't see the exit from here. The fog is so thick around the edges of the room that, if you wanted to, you could sit here and pretend the garden stretches on forever. “You know,” she gives Nai a grim smile, “now that this war is over, we're going to need someone to write the history of it. Maybe you should give it a try.”

 

Nai bristles at this. “Hey, your paper's not worth as much as you think it is,” she says. “This war's not over yet.”

 

-

 

Dinner is quiet. Finn and Poe exchange meaningful glances across the table, as if they think Leia won't notice them. She tells a caustic joke or two and they pretend to laugh. She picks at her fish, and makes a great show of forcing herself to eat several mouthfuls of slimy, sauteed greens, washing it down with a glass of sparkling wine. It's been almost a year since Han's death. She wonders whether she'll ever stop feeling this way before she starves herself and ends up joining him. Her chest and throat feel bruised from the inside as though from the effort of trying to breathe while keeping her head above the waterline of grief. She's distantly hungry almost all of the time, but it's torture to make herself swallow.

 

Back in her room that evening, Leia drinks a tall glass of lukewarm water and takes a round of supplements. She stands in the fresher and unravels her unevenly hung braids, working through her hair with a wide-toothed comb. Though grey, it's still relatively healthy and thick, though lately its grown dull and dry from lack of nutrients. She's thought of cutting it all off to save herself the hassle of maintaining it, but something always stays her hand. She's had hip-grazing hair, in the Alderaanian style, for as long as she can remember, and getting rid of it would feel like losing a part of her identity. Thin and pale as she's become, she might not even recognize her own reflection anymore without it.

 

Maybe it's Nai's cosmic talk that's put her in this frame of mind, but as she watches herself working the knots from it in the mirror, the thought of cutting her hair now strikes her as akin to destroying a record of history. It contains not only the memory of the few, beloved hands she has ever allowed to touch it, but also the memory of her people. Held in contempt as they were by the Empire, demonized and ultimately destroyed for their crime of decadence, their love of beauty and learning, it seems fitting to honor the Alderaanians in this way. There's something vital, she decides, about reserving the right to cultivate something a little bit extravagant, a little bit impractical-- yes, even useless. She weighs this conviction, turning it over in her heart, thinking of how she might be able share it with someone like Thanisson.

 

After washing her face and scrubbing her teeth, Leia lowers the lights and sits down on the edge of the bed. Slipping off her shoes, she falls back against the pillows, not even bothering to change into her sleep clothing. She closes her eyes, trying to relax. The air conditioning is so loud, and her shoulders are so stiff. Sleep will not come easily.

 

_Leia._

 

She jolts upright, her pulse spiking, and glances around in the darkness. _Luke? Is that you?_

 

Luke's mind swells in her awareness, cold with misery. _Leia, he's got her--_ Luke thinks. _I couldn't stop him. Leia, he's got Rey._

 

 _Come here_ , Leia pleads with him. _Join me at Othone Station._ She hugs a pillow to her chest, burying her face against it in order to sharpen her focus, to keep her brother's shimmering, pale-grey presence in her sights. _Stop running away from me._ She squeezes the pillow until her arms hurt. The pain won't go away just because she keeps ignoring it. The sickness wasting her is getting worse and worse. She needs an ally. She needs Luke here beside her.

 

Luke hovers like a weightless mist, warming as he presses an invisible hand between her shoulder blades. _Is Ben with you?_ he asks, urgent but gentle.

 

 _Yes_ , thinks Leia. _Yes, and he's-- Luke, he might be able to help us. He tried to warn me. He believes that Rey contacted him in a dream--_

 

 _No._ Luke's presence stills. _She couldn't have. Ben was mirroring me, or something like it. He watched her go, as I watched her go. But Rey wouldn't listen to him any more than she would listen to me. I'm afraid... she is blinded by her hatred for him._

 

 _I think Ben knows that,_ Leia sends him, _but he wants to help her. Luke, he's-- He's not suffering, not the way he was before. I don't know where he's getting it, what it's costing. I'm afraid to know. But he's found... a way to be himself. I feel as if... I've just met him. Luke, I think it's really him this time. But I'm afraid to hope._ She presses on her eyelids, causing orange blaster bolts to flash across her vision. When she opens her eyes, she is surrounded by gritty, violet dark.

 

 _It's not Snoke_ , Luke assures her. _He's lost Ben. I could see it in him when he was here. Whatever Ben is saying to you now, it's not Snoke speaking for him._

 

Leia's shoulder's shake. _Luke-- I love you so much_ , she thinks, gasping aloud. _You're still my best friend in the galaxy, you know that? We were given to each other-- To help each other. I still believe that, Luke. I still believe in us._

 

 _Leia--_ Luke sends. He hesitates, distractedly smoothing her hair with his phantom touch. This latest failure is too much for him to bear. Leia thinks he might be crying. _I'll join you_ , he sends at last. _I'll be there as soon as I can._ His presence begins to retreat.

 

 _Wait,_ Leia chases after his silver tail. _I've been trying to meditate more, these days, the way you taught me._ She heaves a mental sigh, falling back down against the mattress. _Will you stay a while and help me?_ she asks, holding the pillow over her face. _Help me fall asleep?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr:  
> [theeascetic.tumblr.com](http://theeascetic.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

It's the tail end of delta shift, and Kylo is lying face up on his and Hux's bed, his arms and legs spread wide, feet dangling off the edge. He hasn't seen Hux since yesterday's abortive meeting with Leia, and as the prospect of sleeping alone again tonight draws nearer and nearer, his heart threatens to sink straight through his back and into the mattress below him. He can feel along their bond that Hux is not in any immediate peril, but that's about all he can say for sure. Hux's emotions have been closed to him since their disagreement, and he doesn't expect prying would be very much appreciated.

 

He rolls over with a groan. The animal is whining at him again. Its stomach is rumbling and its limbs are sore. One complaint at a time, Kylo scolds. He hauls himself up off the mattress and fumbles around in one of Hux's bags for a ration bar. The label is printed in Huttese, which he speaks a bit but doesn't read. He gathers it's some type of chocolate. He knows Hux eats these things, complaining about their awful taste but insisting upon their superior nutritional value. He tears the paper open with his teeth and gives it a try. The dark brown mucilage inside is sticky and hard to chew, but actually tastes pretty good in his opinion. It has the unfortunate side effect, however, of making his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

 

He gets a mug and pads over to the fresher to fill it up with tap water. He runs the water hot, hoping it will melt the chocolate paste and swishes it around in his mouth, swallowing several times. Satisfied, he slumps over to the bed and climbs back onto it. Hux isn't going to come to him, he's decided. He must go to Hux and apologize. He rubs his hands in circles against the outsides of his thighs, focusing on the slippery-soft feeling of his bamboo sleep pants. Hux has given him all these sparkly, good-fine things. And even more than that, Hux has given him a half-good self and a real-complete body that can actually enjoy them. What can he say to let Hux know how grateful he is, for everything? Lying back against the pillows, he closes his eyes, trying to compose an apology.

 

His preparations are cut short when suddenly Hux's presence blooms in his awareness. A moment later, the door hisses open, and he folds a pillow over his head, holding himself perfectly still, as if somehow Hux won't see him. The sounds of objects being placed on the bedside table emanate from behind him. He holds his breath, his belly leaping in anxious wonder-pleasure as Hux sits, depressing the edge of the mattress and stooping to take off his shoes. Mashing the pillow against his face, Kylo sees only the flashing black insides of his eyelids, but he can smell Hux's warm skin, hear his soft breath, feel his racing mind.

 

Hux sits with his back to Kylo, and Kylo can feel him folding his hands in his lap, marshaling his words. Kylo holds his breath, expecting Hux to be angry with him. But it doesn't come. “I'm sorry I ran out on you like that,” Hux begins.

 

“Don't be sorry,” says Kylo, his voice muffled by the pillow. “I made you upset. It's my fault.” Hux twists himself around, putting a cautious hand on Kylo's back, and Kylo removes the pillow from his head and rolls over to blink up at him. Kylo's heart leaps at the sight of him. His Love is so beautiful, even now, even rumpled, and glass-eyed, and flinching. Hux reaches down to touch Kylo's cheek and Kylo eagerly nuzzles his hand. “Can you forgive me?” Kylo asks.

 

“There is nothing to forgive,” says Hux. “You want to be able to see your mother. It's understandable. I should have expected it.” He sighs, nervous fingers raking at Kylo's hair. “After all, you were raised in the Republic, weren't you? I can't hold you to the same standards as one of my officers when it comes to managing your personal interests.” He says this like it's a joke, but there's no humor in his eyes. Not even the scornful kind. “I should never have put you in a position where you felt like you had to choose,” he says.

 

Kylo drags himself upright, sitting on the edge of the mattress beside him. “Don't worry about that,” he says. “That's my problem. And it's not. A matter of choosing.” His hand hovers a few centimeters above his lap, longing to reach out and touch Hux's arm. He always hesitates to initiate contact. In spite of Hux's promises, he still can't quite believe he's allowed. “I do hope the peace lasts,” he says. “But I'll stay by your side no matter what happens.”

 

Hux looks away, not responding to this. He slips out of his jacket, letting the length of shimmering ivory fabric pool on the bed next to him where it's liable to wrinkle. “I was just thinking of taking a bath,” he says. Kylo feels a thrill of anticipation at this. The large, black stone tub in their fresher is an enormous luxury, and they have yet to take advantage of it. “Do you want to come join me?” Hux asks. He extends his hand, and Kylo takes it, entranced, allowing Hux to pull him to his feet.

 

They stand in the middle of the floor and the room seems to swim. Kylo feels the Force shivering. Something isn't quite right. But before he can put his finger on it, Hux grabs the front of his sleep shirt, hauling him into a kiss. Kylo groans, staggering towards him, tasting the roof of his liquor-sweet mouth. They make their halting way across the floor, grabbing at each other's clothes, mouths constantly seeking contact. Having easily shrugged off his own bamboo sleep clothes, Kylo reaches for the clasp on Hux's belt. At the same time, Hux pulls his cream colored tunic and white undershirt over his head and throws them on the floor. His belt sufficiently loosened, Hux steps out of his pants and kicks them away. He slips out of his white underclothes, standing naked at last except for his short, white stockings, and Kylo practically dives for him, pinning him against the wall. Their naked skins feel so marvel-soft and velvet-warm against each other that Kylo has to bite his tongue to keep himself from crying out the moment they come into contact. There is simply nothing else in the galaxy like it, this almost magnetic quality of another's flesh. He feels himself growing hard, rubbing his groin against Hux's leg, but it's the firm sensation of their chests breathing against each other that consumes him. Fidgeting in Kylo's grip, Hux elbows the call button on the door and walks Kylo backwards into the fresher, his stockinged feet coasting over the tiles. Kylo grabs Hux by the waist, lifting him up onto the counter beside the faucet. Nestling himself between Hux's thighs, he wraps his arms around Hux's waist and squeezes their torsos together. He can't get enough of their chests rubbing, their nipples dragging against each other like little hot jewels of sensation. A wave of weakness rushes over him, and he almost falls and drags Hux down off the counter.

 

“Sorry--” he gasps, gripping the sides of the sink for balance. “Oh-- Sorry!” Hux steadies him, digging his nails into Kylo's back and Kylo whimpers against Hux's neck, the minor pain making his penis twitch and leap. Shaking, Kylo pulls himself away from the counter. “Sorry,” he repeats.

 

“What's the matter?” Hux narrows his eyes.

 

“You're just so--” Kylo swallows, watching with fascination as a petal-pink flush rises on Hux's pure-cream chest. “So good to touch. I can't. Believe it.” He reaches down and lifts Hux's leg into the air, peeling off his stocking and tossing it aside before reverently kissing the arch of his foot. Impatient, Hux rips the other stocking off himself and pulls Kylo against himself again, kissing him with sudden force. Caught off-guard, Kylo gives him a read through their bond, only to find that Hux's emotions are still closed to him. He whines in frustration at the simultaneity of Hux's body pulling him close as Hux's mind pushes him away.

 

Hux ends the kiss with a loud pop and pulls back, hawkishly searching Kylo's face. “You like this?” he asks. He licks his teeth, eyes flashing with concentration. “You-- You need this,” he says. He wraps his hand around the back of Kylo's head and gives his hair a swift, experimental tug. Kylo gasps, eyes widening in surprise before closing in rapture. “You like it when it hurts a little bit,” says Hux, tilting his head diagnostically. “But not too much. You like gentle treatment, in general. But a little bit of roughness excites you, when it's mixed in.” He lets go of Kylo's hair and Kylo slackens against him, a low gurgle rising in the back of this throat.

 

Kylo surges for Hux's mouth but misses, sloppily kissing his chin instead. “Please,” he pants, licking his way down Hux's chest. “I've wanted to--” He sinks to his knees, splaying his hands across the tops of Hux's shimmery thighs. Lowering his head in supplication, he kisses the hinge of Hux's knee, his inner thigh, nosing his way towards Hux's half-hard penis. Glancing back up, Kylo waits for Hux to nod permission before taking it into his mouth. He tests the velvety weight of it on his tongue, gently coaxing Hux to hardness and Hux sighs, his body humming with excitement under Kylo's hands. Hux grips the sides of the counter and his thighs squeeze Kylo's head, flattening his ears.

 

Kylo trembles, hearing ocean sounds, his face buried in Hux's groin. He reaches reflexively for their bond, longing to feel Hux's pleasure. He told himself he wouldn't pry, but the temptation of the Light, the lure of reaching out and touching, is almost too much for him to bear. It's never been that other people's minds impose on him, he knows, though sometimes that's how it feels. The problem is all him. It's all his own sickness, his own weakness, his own constant, debilitating need to gorge himself on other people's emotions. He is worse than the spice addicts. Far worse, in fact. They are victims of circumstance, corrupted by outside influences. He, Kylo, is corrupted to the core, and with nothing to blame but his own native depravity.

 

Sucking and rocking on his knees in mounting desperation, he presses against Hux's mind and begs for entry-- somehow, impossibly, managing to restrain himself from simply drilling his way in. Hux sends him a conciliatory burst of crackle-sparkle-pleasure from behind his frosty shields, but still refuses to lower them. It will have to be enough. Kylo closes his eyes and buries his nose in Hux's pubic hair, trying to focus on the reality of Hux's physical nearness. He should be able to make his Love happy. He shouldn't need anything more to guide him than the satin-warm pulse of Hux's erection between his lips. This thought is cut short when Hux comes with a yell and Kylo chokes, spitting him up. The Force flickers around them. Reality itself seems to judder in and out like a hologram. “Sorry!” Kylo presses a hand to his chest, hunched and gagging. “I couldn't feel that you were getting close. I should have--”

 

“It's fine,” says Hux. “You did fine.” He hops down from the counter on shaking legs, the mess clinging to his bright pubic hair like dew. “I could use that bath now, though,” he smiles.

 

“Right,” says Kylo, burning with shame. Suddenly, he can't look Hux in the eye. The fantasy he's been nursing for a month about getting Hux off with his mouth is swiftly evaporating in the wake of a disappointing reality. He crawls towards the tub on his hands and knees and palms the brushed steel panel that starts the water flowing. Resting his forehead against the edge of the black stone basin, he rallies himself, resolving to do better. He's beginning to notice that Hux almost never says his name. He knows Hux takes too many stims in the morning and his heart goes all jolty at the slightest noise. He knows Hux drinks, because the peace makes him feel useless. There's got to be something Kylo can do to fix it, to show Hux how necessary he is. He knows that gnarled grey hands still snatch at Hux from behind his eyelids. He knows that Hux imagines Leia crushing the life out of him with a scowl. There's got to be something Kylo can do to show Hux he is safe.

 

Hux stands over him, tilting a bottle of liquid castile in his hands and peering critically down at the label. He unscrews the cap, pouring some of the clear, syrupy soap into the slowly rising water. It smells of marzipan and yields abundant, pearlescent bubbles. Testing the water with a toe, Hux carefully lowers himself into the black stone basin, sighing and tucking his chin against his collar bone. He ducks his head under the water and swiftly pops back up again, smoothing his wet hair away from his face. The tub is large enough for him to fully extend his legs and then some, but he draws them up towards his chest, making room for Kylo to join him. For a moment, Kylo remains crouched, peering over the smooth lip of the basin. He is reluctant to disturb the sublime image of Hux in repose, his white shoulders bobbing above the waterline, the polished, black stone, veined with silver glistening beneath him.

 

Rising up from the floor, Kylo climbs into the water, careful not to jostle Hux's folded legs or splash him in the eye. He groans, feeling the warmth and pressure envelope his tired muscles, the froth of bubbles sparkling against his skin. His knees are drawn up next to his ears so as to give Hux plenty of space. Tentatively, he unfurls himself under the water, watching Hux's face for signs of either annoyance or enjoyment as their slick legs intertwine. He finds neither. Hux doesn't seem to be paying any attention. “This is so nice,” Kylo ventures. Hux blinks at him, his pale eyelashes spiked with moisture. He starts, suddenly moving his legs against Kylo's as if he's only just noticed they're naked in a bathtub together. Kylo shivers with delight at the sensation, his erection bobbing pendulously between them in the water.

 

“I thought you'd enjoy it,” says Hux. “We should--” he swallows. “We should do things like this more often.” He puts a slippery hand on Kylo's knee, meeting Kylo's eye with a strange, watery smile. “Don't you think so? We should... get to know each other better. Since we're--” he struggles for a moment. “Since we're--”

 

“What's wrong?” Kylo asks. Hux stares at his own hand on Kylo's knee. There's obviously no simple answer. “I know the larger circumstances aren't ideal,” says Kylo, petting Hux's nails. “But at least we have each other.” Hux's body seems relaxed and aroused, but his presence in the Force thrums with inexplicable tension. If only he would let Kylo into his mind, maybe Kylo could help him. “If you're worried about Leia--” Kylo begins. “Sorry. I'm not trying to tell you what to think, but. You don't have to be afraid of her. She doesn't want to be enemies anymore.”

 

“You think I'm afraid of her?” Hux sneers. “What can she possibly do?” His shields waver. “Sorry,” he hastily amends. “I won't speak ill of her if it offends you.”

 

“You don't have to worry about offending me,” Kylo frowns.

 

Hux squeezes his knee. “Well, this is what I'm talking about,” he says. “We should spend more time getting to know each other like this. So that we both know where we stand.”

 

Kylo lies back against the wall of the tub, sinking up to his neck in the water. He doesn't like where this is going at all. “I'm not her,” he says, glaring up at Hux, the bubbles lapping at his chin. “What do you mean 'where we stand'? Why are you talking to me like I'm her?”

 

“I didn't mean to suggest that you were anything like her,” says Hux. He takes a deep breath through his nose, lowering his shoulders. “Let's not argue,” he says. “Let's just relax.” He leans forward, touching their foreheads together, and Kylo shudders, the great aperture of the universe suddenly narrowing, the edges of his vision going white. For a moment, there are no stars and no void, no peace and no war, only the dreamy bubble of their mingling breath. Kylo can see the veins in Hux's eyes, can taste his fear, as sharp as salt. But then, the bubble bursts, and he is thrown from Hux's mind.

 

“Put your arms around me,” Hux says softly. Kylo obeys immediately, pulling Hux down on top of himself. He slides his back up the side of the tub, lifting his chest above the waterline so that Hux can rest a cheek on it. “There,” Hux whispers, shifting closer, cupping Kylo's shoulders with both hands. “That's nice, isn't it?”

 

Kylo gasps as the head of his penis drags against Hux's belly, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine. His hips leap, and he struggles helplessly against the torture-soft weight of Hux's body. Before he can stop himself, he comes with a cry of shame, poisoning the water. “I'm sorry,” he whimpers. “I didn't mean to--” He's come on Hux before, but the thought of it diffusing through the water seems so much filthier.

 

“It's alright,” says Hux, petting his shoulder. “I don't mind.” They lie still for several minutes, holding each other. Kylo closes his eyes, a dose of post-orgasm hormones flooding through him. Their heart rates settle, relaxing them at last, their skins slipping minutely against each other. This is bliss, Kylo thinks, inhaling the scent of the marzipan soap. This is as good as it can possibly get. He savors the feel of Hux's flesh, pointedly ignoring the dissonance that surrounds them in the Force.

 

Kylo has practically fallen asleep by the time the water has cooled and Hux has started fidgeting uncomfortably against him. The shriveled pads of their fingers and toes are the only indication to him that time has passed. “Are you cold?” Kylo asks.

 

Hux rolls his eyes. His teeth are chattering. “I'm glad you finally figured out how to turn off the air conditioning in here,” he says. “That would have made it awful.” He peels himself away from Kylo, pressing the panel that drains the tub and stepping out of it onto the floor. He grabs a fresh towel from a cubby in the wall and starts patting himself down. Sniffing irritably, he fluffs his damp hair.

 

“But it wasn't, was it?” asks Kylo, hauling himself out of the tub. “Awful, I mean.” The tiles are slippery beneath him as he climbs out onto the floor. They didn't think to lay down a rug. Hux passes him a towel and he wraps it around himself like a blanket. His hair is mostly dry, except for the ends. Oily though, he reprimands himself. He should have washed it. In fact, he should have suggested that they wash each other's hair. He should have done any number of things. His heart sinks, another fantasy of his evaporating. How does he keep getting it so wrong? They have two nice bodies that like each other. They have a quiet room, a large, soft bed, and plenty of time. This isn't hyperspace engineering. It shouldn't be that difficult.

 

He pulls Hux into an embrace, draping them both with his towel. “I'll warm you up,” he offers.

 

Hux smiles. “At least I can always count on your for that,” he says. “You're a furnace. No, don't make that face. It's one of the most charming things about you.” Kylo squeezes him, kissing his hair. “Perfect,” says Hux, standing on the tops of his feet. “This is perfect.” He sounds different this time, more sincere. The Force rings with warning and Kylo pushes it away. He isn't ready to face that yet. He wants enjoyment first.

 

“It's getting late,” he says.

 

“Mmm,” Hux agrees, humming against his shoulder.

 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Kylo asks. Hux nuzzles closer. Taking this as a yes, Kylo drops both the towels and starts leading Hux out of the fresher.

 

Hux steps out in front of him, crossing the floor and throwing himself onto the bed. He stretches his arms out, falling back luxuriantly against the pillows. “Come here,” he says, suddenly insistent. Kylo approaches, trying to guess the game. His penis is already stirring again. He climbs onto the bed, straddling Hux's legs. Bowing his head to nose at Hux's wonder-smooth belly, he slides his hands under Hux's sides, kneading his flesh.

 

“You're so soft,” Kylo whispers. Feeling a spike of adrenaline through their bond, he freezes, craning his neck to search Hux's face.

 

“What?” Hux asks. “Why did you stop?”

 

“You're afraid,” says Kylo, withdrawing his hands from under Hux's body and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “What are you afraid of?”

 

“Nothing,” Hux lies. He sits up, wrapping his arms around Kylo's shoulders. “Come here,” he coaxes. “Lie down with me. Let's-- Let's have sex.” He climbs into Kylo's lap, presses their chests against each other. His hands are shaking.

 

“Hux, wait,” says Kylo. “I-- I don't like this.” Hux's mouth is on his immediately, licking and kissing. “Wait!” Kylo cries, pulling away. “Are you sure you want sex right now?” He reaches down, massaging Hux's flanks, and Hux's pale eyes flash with ire. “You're safe,” says Kylo, somewhat lamely. “I'm here.”

 

“I know that,” says Hux, his jaw tight. He looks almost insulted.

 

“Please,” says Kylo, thumbing Hux's hip bones in what he hopes to be a comforting manner. “Tell me what's wrong, so that I can help.” Undeterred, Hux takes a dive at him, senselessly, wordlessly, mashing their bodies together, the Force around him shivering with mounting desperation. “Hux!” Kylo catches him by the wrists and pulls them apart. Hux is panting, his glassy eyes in constant motion. “What are you doing?” Kylo asks, shaking him.

 

“I want you,” says Hux. Kylo braces his hands against Hux's biceps in order to separate their bodies, but Hux draws him back in, trying to make their chests stick. They wrestle awkwardly, Hux struggling to keep Kylo against him and Kylo trying to extricate himself. “Please--” Hux breathes into Kylo's ear. “I need you.” Without warning, his shields fall.

 

Kylo throws him off, staggering out of bed. The tile floor is cold against the soles of his feet. He stands there naked, shivering in confusion, his erection rapidly wilting. Hux is slumped forward on the mattress, his fingers curling against his belly, his mind screaming with terror. Images flicker across their bond: youthful struggling bodies in starched, grey uniforms-- fat red blood cells, teeming under a microscope-- dull gunmetal and glinting crystal-- an insect trapped inside the window panes, futility throwing itself against the glass--

 

“We can't have sex tonight,” says Kylo. “We'll wait until you're feeling better.”

 

Hux looks up at him, seething, all mewling pretense dropping away in an instant. “Didn't stop you from sucking me off,” he spits. He stands up, wrapping the chrome thermal blanket around himself, and calmly crosses the room. “But now, all of sudden, there's a problem?” he asks. He opens the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of some ink-dark, shimmering spirit, removing the waxy, black stopper with his teeth and spitting it onto the floor. Taking a stiff swig, he sits down at the table and gathers the blanket around himself, cradling the bottle between his thighs.

 

Numb with shock, Kylo picks up his bamboo sleep pants from the floor and stumbles into them, making his way over to the table. “What is that?” he asks dumbly, sitting down in the opposite chair. He cranes his neck, peering at the label. It's written in a script he doesn't recognize, and features a stylized image of a Bith. “Are you sure it's safe for human consumption?”

 

“It's ordinary alcohol,” says Hux. “It works the same on a lot of different species.” He squints at the label contemptuously. “This kind is cheap.” He knocks it back, making a face. “So,” he sighs, staring at a point somewhere just beyond Kylo's shoulder. “You don't even want sex anymore.” He takes a shuddering breath. He fixes his gaze on Kylo's mouth, unable to meet his eyes. “Alright, then. What _do_ you want?”

 

“Hux, what are you talking about?” asks Kylo. His heart crumples like a ball of foil. He slumps forward in his chair, holding himself like he's made of bruises. “Of course I want sex with you,” he says. “But only if you enjoy it.” He narrows his eyes in confusion. He doesn't understand what Hux is saying. He doesn't _want_ to understand. He wants Hux to stop saying it.

 

“I can enjoy it,” says Hux, gesturing vehemently with the bottle. “I always enjoy it, don't I? I can't very well trick you, can I? You can read my thoughts. So: It has to be real.” He rolls a contemplative tongue around the inside of his cheek. “It _is_ real,” he says softly. “I find you extremely attractive. You're not skilled at sex, but that's alright. Neither am I. I enjoy what we do well enough.”

 

Kylo's mouth falls open, the awful truth crashing over him. He inhales it like seawater, thrashing and sputtering, unmoored from the version of the world he knew until this very moment. “Your body enjoys it,” he says slowly, stomach plunging. “But your mind is. Somewhere else.” He stares into the ink-dark bottom of the bottle as it tilts again towards him, his waterlogged brain struggling to make sense of what's happening. He tries to imagine where Hux's mind goes during sex, and it strikes him that, of course, he already knows the answer. “It was real,” he says urgently. “The room made out of mirrors. It wasn't just a dream-- It was a memory. That really happened to you.”

 

Hux's eyes widen, the color draining from his face. “Were you in my memories,” he says, scarcely audible. It's not a question. “What--?” He unconsciously pulls the blanket tighter around himself, as if it could somehow shield him from Kylo's psychic abilities. Clutching the bottle to his chest, he schools his features into a mask of calm. “What did you see?” he asks.

 

“You were locked in a room, surrounded by mirrors,” says Kylo, entranced by the second-hand memory. “The walls, and the ceiling, and the floor were all mirrors. You saw your reflection all around you, from all different angles. You never got used to it, this retroflector effect, they called it. The sight of it gave you a terrible headache, every time.” Kylo's stomach lurches with the knowledge that this wasn't the only time. In fact, Hux spent the better part of his adolescence dreading visits to this room. “They wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed,” he says. “If you tried to keep them closed, they'd make you look. They'd hold them open.” Kylo's gaze snaps to attention. “There was a man,” he says, “with yellow hair...”

 

Hux's lips are parted in shock. He doesn't move. The bottle lolls in his slack grip.

 

“You think...” Kylo shakes his head in disbelief. “That man-- You think I'm. Like him?” He sits on his hands, hardly trusting himself to do anything else with them. “You think your body is just a _thing_ that people can--” He stomach heaves. “When you offered it to me, I thought-- I didn't know you meant-- You didn't have to--” He thinks back to the first time they shared a bed, imagining how that must have been for Hux, in the aftermath of his gruesome affliction and healing. He thinks of all the time they've spent together since, all the touches they've shared, and his soul is sick. “You don't have to give me your body,” he wretches. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to look into your memories. You had a nightmare. It came to me through our bond.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Hux rasps. “What do you mean 'our bond'?”

 

Kylo nods, certain of this, if nothing else. “The bond between us in the Force,” he says. “We've talked about it before.”

 

“No,” says Hux, eyes haunted. “No, we haven't.”

 

“Can't you feel it?” Kylo asks, giving it a gentle tug.

 

Hux gasps, his hands flying to cover his heart. Panicking, he claws at his chest, as if he could somehow grasp the psychic material of the bond between his fingers. Struggling to modulate his breathing, he looks Kylo in the eye. “Get it out of me,” he hisses, feral and cornered. “What--? What is it? Get it out.”

 

Kylo opens his mouth to speak, feeling the cold air rushing over his teeth. His vision is tunneling. His mind can't parse what his eyes are showing him. Hux is trying to sever their bond with his bare hands. “I can't,” says Kylo. He puts his head down on the table, using his forearms to shield his eyes from the horrible sight of Hux's struggling. “I can't get rid of it,” he says, he speech muffled. This isn't happening. He and Hux, his treasure-Love, his everything, are not having this conversation. This isn't real.

 

“What do you mean you can't?” Hux asks, his voice straining. “You put this--” he pauses, presumably gesturing to himself, “in me, didn't you? Why can't you get it out?”

 

“I didn't put anything in you,” says Kylo softly. “We're bonded. It's just... what happens.” He raises his head. He's not crying. He's not crying, because this isn't real. That's why.

 

“What _happens_?” Hux mouths incredulously.

 

“Yes,” says Kylo, wishing he could evaporate out of his chair. “I mean--” he says. New rule: the misery can't get him until he stops talking. “Force bonds are naturally occurring,” he rambles. “Many people. Have them. It's just a product of frequent psychic contact. Even those who never consciously use the Force, can sometimes form bonds. Couples, parents with their children. It's not uncommon, among the stormtroopers, actually. Units cohere in multi-directional webs. They become more attuned to each other's emotions. It's just that, with us--” Both fists lie quivering in his lap, utterly useless. “With _me_ \--” he corrects. “With powerful Force users, it's different. Some can form bonds strong enough to easily share thoughts, and even dreams. Luke and Leia could have entire conversations that way. Which is. Rare.” He studies the tiny dents and scratches in the plasteel table top, compulsively turning and polishing his inner-lens, scouring its surface for any minute imperfection. And to think he was proud of it, proud of having concocted his own makeshift cure. It can't do anything to help him now. “Our bond is almost as strong as theirs,” he says. “I can't just break it-- Not on my own, anyway. We built it together. Your mind. Contributed to it. Even now, you are maintaining it with me. In order to sever it safely, I would need your cooperation.”

 

“Safely?” asks Hux.

 

Kylo drags his knuckles against the inside of his arm. He remembers, queasily, the consequences of severing his bond with Leia without her cooperation. He remembers Snoke's icy, twisted fingers at his temples, remembers falling to his knees, vomiting and crying. He remembers the taste of metal, the sound of hyperspace, weeks of constant nightmares. He remembers that the worst part of all this was the knowledge that she, too, must be suffering in same way. And the necessity of hardening himself against this fact. His bond with Leia, Snoke had explained, was the source of his weakness. His weakness was the cause of his suffering. Leia had never wanted it, never wanted him, would probably thank him for destroying it-- It had all made perfect sense at the time. “Yes,” says Kylo. “If it's not done properly, it will send us both into psychic shock.”

 

Hux blinks sluggishly, his eyelids sticking with mucus and glassy with drink. He takes another bitter swig, seeming to weigh this information. “Maybe it won't be necessary to sever it,” he says, after a long pause. The alien drink has blackened his tongue. “You don't want sex anymore...” He nods to himself. Manic, cornered, and bargaining. “But will you accept this instead?”

 

“What?” asks Kylo, crumpling, if possible, even further.

 

“This... 'bond' between us,” says Hux, winching and rubbing his chest. “It's something you desire, correct? And you need my cooperation to maintain it, the way you like it?” He is using, Kylo notes, the tone of voice he usually reserves for diplomacy. “So. If I go along with this, will it keep you satisfied?”

 

“Satisfied?” Kylo asks.

 

“Yes,” says Hux. “Will it satisfy my end out our agreement?”

 

“Our agreement?” Kylo mimics, beginning to sound an awful lot like Ben. He tries to think back to Hux's quarters aboard the _Finalizer_. Their agreement? Is that what Hux had called it? Is that what it's been all along? “You were dying,” he says. “You needed me to save you from Snoke. You would have agreed to anything.” He rocks forward in his chair, his breath shortening. “But you said I was your Love,” he heaves. “When I woke up in the medical bay. You said, _I know who my Love is_.”

 

Hux frowns blearily, wiping his mouth on back of his hand. He has no response to this.

 

“You don't have to be so afraid,” says Kylo. He stands up, walking around the table and falls to his knees at Hux's feet. “Let me fix it,” he pleads, laying trembling hands on Hux's shoulders and trying to catch his eyes. “You don't have to give me anything. Just let me fix it.” Hux sniffs, peering down at him. “I'll protect you,” says Kylo. “I won't let anyone hurt you. Here,” he offers. “I'll prove it to you. I'll make it better, right now.” He slides his hands down Hux's chest. At this moment, Kylo needs to make Hux feel safe more than he needs his next lungful of air. He rubs tight circles just below Hux's collar bone with the heels of his palms, pressing this wish into him. Hux jerks like he's receiving an electric shock, swearing and stamping his foot.

 

“Sorry--” Kylo stammers. He tries to think, to catch his breath. “That feeling was too simple,” he says, screwing his concentration. Hux slouches, motionless, under his touch, his mouth hanging slack. “Like eating straight sugar,” says Kylo. “Pleasure is better if it's. Complicated or offset by something. Right?” He raises his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling. “Like cutting sugar with acid or salt.” He chews his lip. “I'll give you something else instead.”

 

He reaches for the dark stone, petting it for reassurance. He's using the Light too much, he knows. Giving in to his sick nature. Playing with fire. A part of him realizes that this is a terrible idea. This is not the way to make Hux feel better. He isn't doing this. This isn't happening. This is insane.

 

He tries it again, adding a drowsy, achy warmth to the mixture. Letting the feeling condense in his palms, he presses it into Hux's body. Hux moans as the sensation hums through him. He slumps forward, dropping the bottle, and Kylo catches him, black liquor glugging all over the floor. “Is that better?” Kylo asks, balancing Hux's limp frame over one of his knees. “Do you want it again?”

 

Hux's eyes are closed, the warm, sleepy feeling pouring over him. “Kylo...” he sighs. “What... is this...?”

 

“I'm giving you a nice feeling,” says Kylo. “But it's only temporary. Like a mind trick. It'll wear off as soon as I stop.” He combs his fingers through Hux's still-damp hair. “I wish I could do better. But it's all I've got.”

 

Hux groans, his lips frothing with saliva. His eyes fly open, and he spasms in Kylo's arms. “Urghh-- What--?” He thrashes, beating his fists against Kylo's chest. Kylo falls onto his back, letting Hux shove him over, and Hux scrambles to his feet, shoulders heaving. The chrome thermal blanket falls away, leaving him naked. “Stop!” he cries. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

“I'm sorry,” says Kylo, raising his hands as if the defend his face. “I wanted to help you feel better. It was a bad idea. I'm sorry.”

 

Hux bends over, and picks up the black bottle, and hurls it against the wall where it shatters with a high, sparkling crunch. “Parasite,” he hisses, turning to reveal his scrunching, meat-red face. “Organa was right to get rid of you.” He walks over to the cabinet and starts methodically taking bottles down from the shelf, full bottles of cheap alien liquor, and throwing them against the wall. They burst like water balloons filled with shimmering ink, each one landing harder than the last. When he runs out of bottles, Hux turns around and grips the back of his chair, panting. He rattles it against the floor in a brief, violent flurry before stopping abruptly. “I can't do this,” he says, not so much to Kylo as to the universe in general. “It's not worth it,” he says. “Just let Him kill me.”

 

Kylo lies back against the floor, the breath knocked out of him. He can't move. He can't speak. It's not the peace treaty that makes Hux pop three stims each morning. It's not Leia that makes him drink to dullness every night. It's not Snoke that makes him squirm and cry out in this sleep. It's Kylo. A senseless, ravenous parasite. A desperate measure, like leaches for poison. A cure that's almost worse than the disease. A form of protection that's almost worse than the danger. Hux has the nexu by the ears: He can't hold on and he can't let go. Hux doesn't want him, has never wanted him, has only ever pretended to want him. Worse: He, Kylo, is a steel trap, and Hux is an animal ready to chew its own leg off in order to escape from him. 

 

Retrieving the thermal blanket, Hux drapes it across his shoulders and shuffles over to the bed. Dead on the floor, Kylo watches out of the corner of his eye. Hux picks up his red crystal crown from the bedside table, turning it over in his hands. He tucks his chin in contemplation before whirling around and pitching it, too, against the wall, where it splinters into several large fragments. He dives into the bed, burying his face in the pillows and heaping the thick covers on top of himself.

 

Kylo rolls over onto his side, facing the wall. Hux orders the lights down and they both lie, stricken, in silence. Kylo draws his knees up towards his chest. He feels strangely numb. His mind is remarkably quiet. The smell of alcohol is giving him a headache. The Force rings with warning, and he deafens himself against it. Summoning their discarded clothes, he bunches them up under his head and falls asleep on the floor.

 

 

-

 

 

In the dream, he is Ben.

 

He is sitting in the grass behind Luke's house under the lattice roof strung with curling vines that bear long, shiny pods. Luke uses them to make a thick, green soup, but Ben prefers to eat them straight off the vine, raw, and crisp, and sweet. He is crunching on a giant pod, almost the length of his hand, and attempting to compose a message for his mother. Luke said he would be allowed to send her a holo this afternoon. He's heard their plan. He knows that Leia is hoping to slowly reestablish contact, now that she thinks Luke has cured him.

 

 _Mother, it wasn't Uncle Luke who cured me_ , he begins, but Snoke is in his mind, redacting lines from the draft of his message as fast as he can think them. _Mother it wasn't--_ he tries again. _Mother, I miss you._ He blinks up through the dappled light. _No, Mother_ , Snoke supplies instead. _Don't come. Everything's fine._ Ben frowns to himself. Something isn't right.

 

This is a memory, he reasons. At the time, he wouldn't have recognized Snoke editing his thoughts. At the time, he took this to be his own volition. Ben saw in Snoke's illegible, alien mind an oasis. A dark, quiet cave in which he could finally escape from the minds of others. Snoke's thoughts seemed blessedly inaccessible to him, making him feel, for the first time in his life, that he was having a real, two-sided conversation with a totally separate being. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, he can see this for what it was: A deft act of ventriloquism. Snoke kept Ben's eyes occupied with the one hand while he reached around into the back of this mind with the other. He spoke out of the side of his mouth, giving the impression of two voices, and Ben assumed one of them to be his own-- but it was always just Snoke, talking to himself.

 

The wind rustles the vines and Ben sobs in frustration. _Mother!_ he thinks, _I'm not cured at all. It's not real. It's not me. Don't listen to it._ He kneels in the grass, clutching his belly, feeling Snoke's long fingers squirming and snagging inside him. This isn't really the way it happened, he knows. He never fought it like this. It wouldn't have occurred to him at the time. At the time, he didn't even realize it was happening.

 

He hears a peel of high-pitched laughter, and looks up to see Rey bounding towards him, her tiny hands clasped in front of her. Her Light washes over him, chasing the shadows away, and he shudders with gratitude. This isn't how it happened. In real life, Rey had tried to show him what she'd caught, and he had yelled at her until she cried. Luke had punished him that afternoon for scaring her, and he never got to send the holo, never got to tell his mother what was happening to him. By the time he spoke to Leia again, it was far too late.

 

“Ben!” Rey is squealing. “Ben, look!” She opens her hands. She's holding a crushed butterfly. Its shimmering scales are scarlet from one angle and gold from another. She looks down at it and flinches. “It's dead,” she says. Her mouth puckers in misery. “I killed it. Ben, I didn't mean to.” Her eyes fill with tears.

 

“I know you didn't mean to,” he says. “But it's a delicate thing.” He reaches out and covers her hands with his own-- so much larger than hers, but not as large as they will be. He feels black tendrils of strange power stirring inside him. It's not the Force. Not quite. It's the same power he used to save Hux, he realizes.

 

Rey's eyes widen. “What are you doing?” she asks, afraid. She tries to pull her hands away, but he holds on to them. “Let go of me!” she shrieks.

 

“Hold on,” he says. “I can fix it.” He feels his palms heating, blood pooling in his fingertips, seeping up from the spongy tissue under his nails. There's a prickle of pain as the blood rises to the surface, breaking the thin skin. A few drops are enough to save this tiny creature. Lightheaded, his body tingling and throbbing, Ben lets Rey go and she staggers away from him. The insect shudders back to life in her hands, its wings tickling her, and she gasps, releasing it. She throws her head back to watch it as it flies away in a spiral path, disappearing beyond the vines.

 

“You un-killed it,” says Rey. She looks at him in wonder. There's a smear of his blood on her forearm that she hasn't noticed, and she's going to get it on her beige tunic as soon as she moves. Ben looks from the bright macule of blood on her arm to his own hands. The gore around his nails has already dried and turned to rust. He wipes it on his dark leggings. The pain is gone and the minor wounds are sealed.

 

“I'm sorry,” says Ben. “Did I scare you?” Rey smiles, shaking her head. He takes her by the hand, and uses the end of his dark cotton scarf to wipe the blood from her forearm. “Are you hungry?” he asks. She nods enthusiastically, sticking out her tongue. “Okay,” he says, “let's go inside.” He gets up, leading her around to the front of the house. He's not nearly as tall or as broad as he will be, but his body feels alright. It feels present and weighty. Food sounds good to him, too. Rey clambers along beside him on her tiny legs as they make their way up the steep garden path, and in his head, Ben goes back to composing his message.

 

 _Mother_ , he thinks, _I'm not cured. It's not me. Don't trust it._ He hates the thought of telling Leia these things. He wants her to understand, but he doesn't want to crush her hopes. She won't be happy to hear that Jedi training hasn't saved him. _Mother, don't stop looking_ , he adds. _I know I'm in here somewhere. Please come find me._

 

He reaches down to pick up Rey and carry her over the big stone steps at the top of the path. They are still too steep for her to climb. She kicks and giggles in his grip, her Light buffeting him in waves, and he drinks it in. He thinks he could be happy mirroring her, following her for the rest of his life, and he wonders if she'd let him be her shadow. When they reach the front of the house, Rey hops out his arms and runs through the open door, shrieking with excitement. Ben stops at the bottom of the porch steps, staring after her. He can already smell Luke's soup from outside. Luke appears in the doorway, a wooden spoon in his hand, and winks at him. “You hungry yet, buddy?” he asks. Ben nods. Luke's eyes soften. “You thought about what you wanna say?”

 

“Yeah,” says Ben, smiling up at him.

 

This isn't how it happened.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

It's still the middle of the night. In fact, it's only been a couple of hours. Kylo rolls onto this back with a groan. His body aches all over from sleeping in such a terrible position. When he takes a deep breath, expanding his ribcage, even his bones feel bruised. He clambers to his feet, surveying the wreckage. It glints in the dark. For some reason, he's surprised to find liquor and shattered glass all over the floor, as if he expected the mess to disappear when he closed his eyes.

 

A chill hangs over the Force. A part of him has been anticipating this-- But he had assumed, he now realizes, that when the time came to face it, he'd have Hux at his side. How foolish, he thinks. That was never the case at all. Now, he knows what he has to do. And he knows he has to do it alone.

 

He walks over to the closet next to the bed, and pulls out one of the new undershirts Hux got for him. He still hasn't worn any of them. The costly, dark grey fabric feels so lush and slippery in his hands, and for a moment he just stands there playing with it, testing its weight and quality, before pulling it on over his head. It's comfortably snug, meant to compliment the shape of his body. On top of this, he dons his black First Order officer's jacket, letting it hang open. He pulls some thick black stockings over his feet, and stuffs the bottoms of his loose sleep pants into his tall First Order boots. Finally, he fastens a brown leather utility belt around his hips.

 

Walking over to the bed, he watches the lump of covers rise and fall with Hux's breathing. Their bond rings with Hux's anguish-- like the hallways of the _Finalizer_ , echoing with the screams of prisoners. Kylo kicks himself for failing to see it before. Why did he ever think he could outrun the truth? His mental touch, no matter how lightly applied, is still torture.

 

He takes his lightsaber from the bedside table, clipping it to the utility belt, and his silver hair ring, fastening his hair in a high, loose tail. He pockets his comlink. Crunching broken glass beneath his boots, he walks over to the wall and picks up the largest shards of Hux's crown. Concentrating with all his might, he levitates them in front of him and compresses them again into a single piece of crystal, forging it into a long, sharp dagger. Plucking it from the air, he weighs the red crystal dagger in his palm before slipping it into one of the loops on his utility belt.

 

Heaving his tired limbs, he gets up and walks over to the door. Pressing the call button, he pauses to watch the rise and fall of Hux's outline, faintly illuminated by the fluorescents outside. He stands at the threshold, the doorway bisecting his body. On one side, the warm, blue darkness of their hotel room. On the other side, the bright-white, over-air conditioned hall. The door quivers in its cradle, its droid eye sensing the obstruction and halting every time it tries to close itself. He steps out of the way, letting the door slip shut behind him, separating him from his Love. Alone under the harsh lights, he nearly doubles over in anguish. For a moment, he's convinced the pneumatic door has snipped their bond, though of course that would be impossible.

 

He marches down the empty hallway. The dreams of others rush past him in an endless torrent and he holds the dark stone out in front of him like an umbrella against a horizontal rain. Now, more than ever, he needs his focus.

 

He rounds the corner at the end of the corridor, entering the deserted conference hall. Cleaning droids rove past his feet, polishing the floor. The room looks so much bigger with no one inside it. His footsteps echo as he strides over to the Resistance head table. He pulls out Leia's chair and sits down. He looks over at his and Hux's places on the other side of the room and imagines Leia sitting and watching them from here, peering at them through the crowd. How must she have felt, seeing him this way on that first night, he wonders. What must he have looked like to her, after all these years?

 

He pulls the comlink out of his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands. There's not much time left. He needs to compose a message. He slides his thumb back and forth over the chrome dial, clicking the comlink on and off as he deliberates. He enters a few lines, reads them back to himself, and sends them without changing a word. Bracing his palms against the table, he gets up and carefully tucks Leia's chair back in. The shrill sound of its legs scraping against the floor in the silent conference hall strikes him as strangely beautiful. He pulls the chair out and pushes it back in, just to hear the sound again. This is stalling for time.

 

Walking away from the table, he pitches his comlink into a refuse chute in the wall, pausing to listen as it rolls down a long, metal duct and into the garbage masher several stories below. He imagines, with some satisfaction, the device being crushed into nothing. A cleaning droid idles indignantly at his heels, waiting for him to move so it can continue buffing away the smudges his boots have left on the floor. He steps over it and strides towards the door, fighting his tendency to hunch and throwing his chest forward and his shoulders back they way Hux might. Taking a deep breath, he reaches out with the Force and depresses the locking mechanism, making the door slide open. He walks down the corridor and steps out into the docking bay under the transparent dome. Space is all around him, roaring with stars. Gazing into the void at the end of the wafer-thin landing strip, he falls into a light, meditative trance. He spares the station one last glance over his shoulder. “Okay,” he says. “I'm ready.” He holds his head up high. “Let's go.” Snoke nods, frowning in sympathy.

 

“Oh, Child.” He tilts his long neck and shrugs his asymmetrical shoulders. “How brave you have made yourself in my absence. But I'm afraid it does you little good.” His fish scale eyes glisten in his head like silver beads pressed into a lump of pale, slip-moistened clay. He extends a gnarled, grey hand, and Kylo flinches, feeling that featureless mind probe his body like someone dragging an ice cube down the back of his neck. This cold, blank touch was always such a comfort in the past, but now it makes his stomach turn. He peers past Snoke and into the hangar bay, already breaking his resolution about not looking back. Snoke's ship hovers in the air beside them, twitching and breathing, it's great mouth dripping with impatient fluids. And of course, he thinks. Why didn't he recognize it before, when it swallowed Rey in his vision? But the memories are so strange and vague. When Snoke found him-- passed out in the woods fifty kilometers from Luke's house, covered in other people's blood --he remembers waking, briefly, to find himself being swallowed and carried away. And there were other times too, weren't there, over the years? He's travelled this way many times before.

 

Snoke catches a whipping tentacle and wraps it around his bony wrist, yanking it taught. The beast whines, its jaw slackening as its master brings it to heel with a tug on the reigns. Snoke steps aside, waiting for Kylo to enter the starless black maw, but Kylo hesitates. “I made it all up,” Kylo says softly.

 

“Yes, Child,” Snoke nods. “As you are wont to do.”

 

Kylo breathes, pinching his shoulder blades together, taking note of the way the muscles in his back bunch. He feels a wash of vertigo. The last time he stood before Snoke, he was a child-shaped phantom, steering this lumbering thing from within like an AT-AT driver. Now, the phantom has expanded so that it overlaps with his body, moving with it as one. He has risen to the skin, broken through to the surface, so that at last he feels the outside world against him. He wriggles his feet inside his boots, consciously dwelling in the boundary between the air and himself. He has mapped and memorized his real, grown up body too well now for Snoke to trick him out of it again. He has measured the depth of his chest and the width of his shoulders by the heat of Hux's palms against them. His entire body feels as if Hux built it, packed it in warm handfuls onto Kylo's weightless spirit and sculpted it into a suitable shape. Even his scars and spots are pleasing when viewed in this way, as Hux's design choices. Hux may have banished him, but he is generous enough to let Kylo take this gift along with him as he goes on his wretched way. Kylo is reminded, absurdly, of his mother taking him into the shops to buy new clothes as he quickly grew too tall for his old ones. _You can wear them out_ , she'd say, fondly ruffling his hair as they stood at the counter, waiting to pay the seamstress. _No need to change back._

 

Armored in the knowledge of his proper form, facing Snoke feels different. It used to feel like he was hiding in a secret cave, whispering to a shadow on the wall, unwilling or unable to turn himself around and see what manner of creature stood behind him casting it. Now, they're just standing here, having a conversation like any two ordinary people. He is aware of both his own and Snoke's physical presence, of the space between them, in a new, unprecedented way. For the first time ever, he thinks of reaching out and touching Snoke. Or even striking him.

 

“I don't just mean with Hux,” he says. “I made it all up with you, too.” He looks Snoke in the eye. “I remember you coming to me. Explaining my sickness to me. I learned from you that the Dark Side was the only cure.” The ship squirms beside them like a shark in a net, anxious to suck Kylo into its belly, but Snoke keeps it at bay, waiting to hear Kylo out. “But you didn't actually offer me a cure, did you?” Kylo asks, peering up at him. “You told me I was sick, and you told me to use the Dark Side, but you never actually said the Dark Side would make me better. That part of it never happened. I just heard what I wanted to hear, and you let me. I made it all up.”

 

“Ah,” says Snoke, indicating the dark lens, “but you've done so well for yourself. You've made use of my training.” Its true, Kylo thinks. Even if his sickness can't be cured, he's managing it. Managing it better than he ever thought he could. And even if Hux doesn't love him, (never loved him) it doesn't mean that he can't still love Hux. He roves the dark eye, cherishing his very own, his very first, true-complete feeling. He doesn't know if this is how real people bolster themselves, but it's all he has to go on, and it's going to have to do.

 

If only someone besides Snoke could have shown him the power of the Dark Side. If only his grandfather could have been there, when he was small. Anakin would have known what to do. Anakin would have fixed it-- No, Kylo admonishes himself. It's pointless to imagine that a man who died before he was born could have saved him. This is the only one of Ben's childish fantasies that he still clings to, and it's time, at last, to let it go. “Release her,” he says, tilting his head back and gazing up into Snoke's face. “Take me instead. I am the one you want, not Rey.”

 

Snoke nods, but says nothing, turning and disappearing into the ship's cavelike mouth. When Kylo follows, the opening closes behind him, and Snoke is nowhere to be found. He panics, feeling around in the darkness of the creature's belly. He can't see anything at all, and before he knows it, the slick walls are closing in. Alien muscles clench around him, holding his body immobile, and at first he can't breath. They squeeze and knead his flesh, sending bioelectric currents through his nervous system, forcing him to relax. Rubbery feelers gather his hair out of the way to press against the base of his skull, delivering a signal to his brainstem that lulls him unconscious.

 

He has one last thought before slipping under and it's not even really his own:

 

It floats up from the sea of all the other minds he's ever touched. A fragmentary image. A metaphor that must have stood for something else. A random scrap of metal detritus. In the belly of Snoke's ship, depressed upon its fleshy tongue, he feels like a grain of sand inside an oyster. And he wonders-- or rather, someone else wonders --if he'll emerge on the other side of this as a pearl. Poetic certainly, but most pearls, he knows, aren't actually caused by grains of sand. The irritant is usually a water bug or tiny worm, which doesn't seem quite as romantic. But then, Kylo considers, maybe it's a hopeful notion. A parasite is born to steal, and waste, and ruin-- But if it's lucky enough to die in the right place at the right time, its corpse might be layered with nacre and transfigured into something beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr:  
> [theeascetic.tumblr.com](http://theeascetic.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

Othone Station looks much the same today as it did yesterday. First Order personnel wander the halls in small groups, whispering to each other, loitering in alcoves, anxious with the lack of guidance coming from the top. There are no warning lights flashing, no klaxons blaring as Leia rushes past them on her way towards Hux's office. She didn't even bother to put her hair up this morning. It swishes over her shoulders like a cape as people stare after her. The crisis happening in her chest is not happening in any of the chilly, off-white rooms she crosses through. She passes under an archway and climbs a small flight of stairs, her short-heeled slippers clacking against the composite floor with every step. This walk has never seemed so long. The moments stretch like taffy, her vision tunneling as she rounds the corner into the main corridor. The walls and ceiling are laid with matte, eggshell tiles, sinister in their blankness, and lit from below by bright-white diodes that leave her dazed.

 

Her hand is fisted in the pocket of her gown, clutching her comlink, as she comes to a halt in front of Hux's office door. She stops herself, examining the impulse to rush in, present Hux with the message, and demand an explanation. He may not even be privy to it. Before revealing anything, she must first assess his level of knowledge and involvement. She pounds the call button, waits, and pounds it again, harder, as if that might make the call tone louder. No answer. “Hux?” she yells. She knows he's in there. “Hux, open the door.” Still no answer. For all she knows, he's passed out drunk. Her ribs burn like glowing irons. An image, absurd but vivid, of Hux inside the office, somehow holding Ben hostage, flashes through her mind. Rage grips her and, before she can think better of it, a tendril of dark intent slots itself into the locking mechanism, triggering the pneumatic door. The door jams open, idling in its cradle as she steps through it. The Darkness whips around her as she strides into the room, rustling the red banners that decorate the walls. She already knew Ben wasn't in here. So what business does her heart have seizing up like it's a surprise?

 

Hux is seated on one of the settees, before the righted tea table, his legs crossed, a datapad balanced on his thigh. The other settee is exactly where Ben left it, a pile of stuffing and splinters against the back wall. Hux reaches for his caf, taking an abbreviated sip. “General Organa,” he says, tilting his mug at her as if this is just another one of their meetings. He knows it's not. He's being deliberately obnoxious. He looks exhausted, his hair is a mess, and he's missing his crown, but he still has it in him to antagonize her. “How are you this morning?” he smiles through his obvious hangover. Leia crosses the floor, standing over him. Hux's expression falters as her intent comes to rest, a cold finger of pressure, against his throat.

 

“Don't you give me that,” she hisses. “Don't you dare.”

 

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” says Hux, his upper lip receding tartly. “Would you like some caf?”

 

Leia's fists clench among her skirts. His blitheness cuts her, as it's surely meant to do. She expected, at least, fear from him. Wasn't Ben supposed to be his protection? Unless-- her blood freezes --unless he's made some kind of alternative deal. Somehow traded Ben away, in order to ensure his own safety. And of course, she thinks. Of course that's what must have happened. A roar of static engulfs her mind, and she can't even say it's unintentional. The Dark Side can't sneak up on you, it can't steal you away, it can't make you do anything you don't want to do-- She doesn't believe in those excuses.

 

Hux jolts upright, eyes wide, larynx bobbing as she squeezes his throat-- not hard enough to strangle him to death, just hard enough make him drop his datapad and uncross his legs. “Where is he?” asks Leia. Hux makes a choked sound, gripping the edge of his seat, his feet kicking and dragging against the floor. “Tell me,” she says, her arm extended, taking a step towards him. The Darkness swells inside of her-- and there's no whispering voice, no trickster god. Only her own will, only her own rage. If she's never had much patience for Luke's solemn quest to understand what must have happened to their father-- Well, it's always seemed pretty self-explanatory to her.

 

She takes a deep breath, releasing her hold on the Force, and Hux slumps forward, gasping. He huddles over his lap, shielding his face with his forearms, clearly terrified of her. Leia waits, watching his shoulders rise and fall. His paper-thin pretense lies crumpled on the floor. Now she wonders why he even bothered with it to begin with. What did he think he was going to accomplish? But it's almost compulsive, this false front, almost an end it itself. (And isn't that awfully familiar?)

 

After a long time, Hux looks up at her with cloudy, haunted eyes. “He's gone,” he says softly.

 

“Gone where?” Leia urges. No answer. “Hux, tell me what happened to my son,” she says, but the threat in her voice seems lost on him. He stares straight through her, his lips slightly parted, practically motionless. Her anger at the thought of him handing Ben over quickly subsides as she realizes there was probably nothing he could have done. “Hux.” She lowers her voice. “I know Snoke was here. Did you see him?”

 

The Force around Hux shudders with fear, but he shows no immediate signs of having heard her. Slowly, he tilts his neck, lowering his chin against his chest. His lips remain parted in shock as his gaze plummets into his lap. Leia reaches for her comlink, making sure it's still in her pocket. Hux is frozen. She doesn't have time for this. She needs to know what he knows, _now_.

 

“Snoke wasn't here,” Hux rasps, not looking up. “He can't have been.”

 

“But I _know_ he was,” says Leia angrily. “I sense his hand in this.”

 

Hux peers down at his reflection in the metal table. He tilts his head, almost curious. “Then why am I still alive?”

 

Leia relaxes her jaw, casting her eyes sideways in thought. She picks up Hux's mug from the table and presses it into his hands, waiting for him to take a trembling sip. Satisfied, she continues with the interrogation. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she says. “What, exactly, did you see?”

 

Hux drains the caf and clutches the empty mug to his chest as though trying to absorb its fading warmth. “Nothing,” he says. “I didn't see anything.” Distracted, he rolls the smooth, plastone cylinder between his hands, refusing to look up at her.

 

“Explain,” she says, snatching the cup away from him and setting it back down on the table. Hux chews the inside of his cheek. His datapad is buzzing, but he knows better than to reach for it. He glances down at it, and Leia kicks it under the table. “When was the last time you saw Ben?” she asks.

 

“Last night,” says Hux. He blinks, his face reddening. “He didn't tell me he was leaving,” he says, swallowing the final syllable as something shakes him from within. “When I woke up this morning, he was gone.”

 

Leia presses a palm to her mouth, sinking down to sit precariously on the edge of the table. It's made of a flimsy alloy, much lighter than it looks. If Hux really doesn't know anything, then she is all out of leads. She closes her eyes, searching for answers, but the Force is rolling with dense fog. She won't think of how losing Ben felt, the first time. She won't trace the puckered scar in her mind that still marks the place where he tore their bond out by the roots. She won't think about lying sprawled on the floor of her apartment the morning Luke called her, letting her comlink chime for hours and refusing to answer him, already knowing the news. She won't think about Han finding her like that and gathering her up in his arms. He didn't even ask her what was wrong-- He looked right into her, and knew. She won't think about the Senate hearing she attended three days later, as if nothing had happened.

 

Hux stares sightlessly down at his hands. He looks so lost. Leia won't think about what it took to make her feel that lost. She draws a deep breath, gathering her skirts and pushes herself to her feet. She spins away from him, the veil of her hair wafting over one shoulder, obscuring half her vision, and takes a step back towards the door. It's still wide open, grinding in its cradle, the mechanism jammed. She hears a set of distant footsteps and wonders if it's Hux's security come to toss her out, or if she's just being paranoid. “I'm going to ask you a question about something else now,” she says. “And I need you to answer me honestly. Do you think you can do that?” Hux doesn't respond. She presses on. It's probably a bad idea. But this question has been killing her for weeks now and she needs to know the answer, especially if their meetings are about to come to an end. She turns back around, securing her hair behind her ears, and gazes deep into this strange, lost man. She's not even sure what she's hoping to hear from him, exactly. Hux is a sorry place to look for solace. (She won't think about just how sorry Ben must have been, to have found it in him.) She wants to take the words back before they've even left her mouth. “Do you really care about him?” she asks. Hux looks up at her, his eyes shining with tears. Leia holds her breath, thinking of all the possible answers he could give, all things he could say in this moment to wound her-- But he doesn't get the chance.

  
The footsteps are close at hand. Finn storms into the room, slightly out of breath, and rushes past Leia to get to Hux. He's wearing his utility belt, a blaster holstered at his hip. It was supposed to have been confiscated at the beginning of the conference, but he's somehow managed to smuggle it all the way into Hux's office. “Where did he take her?” he demands of Hux through gritted teeth. He kicks the tea table out of the way, sending Hux's empty mug rolling across the floor.

 

“FN-2187,” Hux sniffs, his mask immediately sliding back into place. His tears evaporate so quickly that Leia wonders whether or not she imagined them. He glances at Finn's holstered weapon. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

 

“He has her,” says Finn urgently. He paces a narrow strip of floor in front of the settee, nostrils flared, eyes burning. “Where does he live? Where is he keeping her?”

 

“Who?” Hux squints. “What are you talking about?”

 

Finn stops pacing, taking deep breaths through his nose. “Supreme Leader,” he says. “Supreme Leader has Rey.”

 

“Finn--” says Leia, taking a cautious step towards him.

 

“What does he even want with her?” he cries, his mouth trembling. “Is it because she's learning how to use the Force? Is he going to try to make her like Kylo Ren?” He whirls around, glaring at Hux. “Tell me where he is!”

 

Hux stands, bringing them face to face. He has a little bit more than ten centimeters of advantage in height, and he makes ample use of it. “General Organa,” he sneers, looking Finn up and down. “Please discipline your subordinates.”

 

“You better deal with me yourself--” says Finn.

 

“Or else,” Hux continues, talking over him, “I'll have them arrested for threatening the armistice.”

 

“Actually,” says Leia, crossing her arms, “you can't. Finn has diplomatic immunity.”

 

Hux looks over Finn's shoulder at her, genuinely taken aback. “You're joking,” he laughs uncomfortably. “He's a stormtrooper.”

 

“You signed off on it yourself,” says Leia. “His name was on the list I submitted to you for approval before we arrived.”

 

Hux shakes his head at her in disbelief. “How? He doesn't have a name!” Finn lunges at him and Hux gives an undignified yelp, obviously unprepared to fend him off. He falls back onto the settee, throwing his arms up in front of his face, and Finn grabs at them.

 

“Hey, hey!” Leia shouts, breaking them up. She puts a hand on Finn's shoulder, guiding him out of the way. Looking her in the eye, he angrily shrugs it off.

 

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks.

 

Leia sighs. “I wasn't going to tell you at all,” she says. She glances down at his blaster, strangely impressed, in spite of herself, that he managed to get it past security. “How did you find out?”

 

“Poe,” he shrugs. “But don't be mad at him,” he adds quickly. “He didn't betray you, okay? I just... overheard some things.” He looks down at the floor, working his jaw. “How long has she been gone?” he asks.

 

Leia folds her hands in front of her, weighing the consequences of telling him the truth. “A couple of weeks,” she says.

 

Finn closes his eyes, his bottom lip quivering. “And how long have you known?” he grinds out.

 

She nods once. “A couple of days.”

 

“You told Poe, but you didn't tell me,” says Finn, anguish shaking him. “What do I have to do to get you to trust me, huh?”

 

“It has nothing to do with not trusting you,” says Leia. “You've been a great help to me, and I appreciate everything you've done.”

 

He throws up his hands and drops them in frustration. “But you treat me like I'm a little kid,” he says. “Like I can't keep up with the rest of you. Like you think I was so messed up by _them_ ,” he nods sharply in Hux's direction, “that I can't handle anything.” He rolls up the sleeves of his dress uniform. “Well I _can_ handle it, okay? Better than most of your agents, who are supposed to be so tough. Just because I don't wanna fight, doesn't mean I don't know how.” He glances around the room, noticing for the first time the wrecked furniture and rumpled First Order banners. “I'll fight if I have to,” he says. “And I'll do whatever it takes to get her back.”

 

“Finn,” Leia admonishes. “This is exactly why I didn't tell you. You can't just go rushing off to save her all by yourself.” But he's already brushing past her, eager to interrogate Hux further.

 

“Supreme Leader Snoke,” he snaps. “You've met him, right? Where does he live?”

 

“Hmm.” Hux ignores him, reaching into his pocket for something. He frowns, patting himself in confusion when whatever it is isn't there. He gets up and walks over to his desk on the other side of the office, stooping to pick up his mug along the way.

 

“Hey!” Finn jogs after him. “Answer me!”

 

Hux stands behind his desk, riffling through the drawers. “I don't know where Snoke is,” he says impatiently, without looking up. “I've only met him in person a handful of times. I believe he lives on a ship. My understanding is that he seldom remains in the same place for very long.” He starts emptying the drawers, stacking papers and various small objects on top of his blotter. Putting down a battery pack, he lunges across the desk to catch a large glass paper weight, accidentally sent rolling. “He would usually communicate his orders to me via hologram, and even in person...” he trails of, a strange look stealing over his face. He gazes into the glass sphere, contemplating the particles of sand and soot that seem to swirl within it. “Even in person, he's like a hologram,” he says, frowning to himself. He puts the sphere back down on the desk, where it remains mysteriously still, though it looks to be perfectly round. “All I know is this: He is extremely powerful. He is unimaginably cruel. And he has great designs which no one else in the galaxy understands.”

 

“But you fought him off, didn't you?” asks Finn. “You took control of the First Order from him. Or you got Kylo Ren to do it for you. But it's the same thing either way, right? It _can_ be done.”

 

Hux starts pulling the drawers out and shaking them upside down, frantically searching for something. “I'm afraid Kylo Ren can't help you,” he growls. He turns open his pockets and shoves a hand into a pouch in the lining of his jacket. He takes the jacket off and tosses it over the back of the chair behind him, growing increasingly sweaty and manic as whatever he's looking for fails to materialize.

 

“Well that's just fine,” says Finn, throwing his shoulders back. “I'll figure something out myself.” His hands are shaking. Leia walks up beside him, trying to draw his attention away from Hux.

 

“I've been in contact with my brother, Luke,” she says softly.

 

“Luke Skywalker?” Finn asks, incredulous.

 

“Yes,” she says. “He'll be here soon. He and I are going to come up with a plan. Finn,” she pauses, waiting for him to look at her. “I promise you, we'll do everything we can to get Rey back.” She takes a deep breath, measuring her words. Finn said he could handle it-- And besides, she's not feeling especially kind. “I need you to understand something though,” she continues. “We have to start preparing ourselves for the possibility that we might not be able to save her.”

 

Finn's expression crumples. “How can you say that?” he asks, his voice cracking. His eyes track Leia's, starry with angry tears. “He was supposed to protect her,” he rasps. “She sent me holos-- She seemed like she was doing fine.” He shakes his head. “Luke Skywalker is supposed to be this great Jedi right? I thought-- I thought as long as Rey was with him, that nothing bad could happen to her.” The Force around him rattles and hisses with betrayal. “It wasn't supposed to be this way.”

 

Leia's soul heaves. She remembers telling herself some version of this, whenever she had a bad feeling about Ben. Surely, there was nothing to worry about-- Surely, Luke wouldn't let anything happen to him-- But her brother, for all his otherworldliness, is just a man.

 

Sometimes, Luke would come to her and tell her of his visions, a film of magic covering his stone-grey eyes. He saw chaos and danger in their future. But he couldn't foresee how Snoke would destroy their lives. “He's not all-powerful, Finn,” she says sadly. “No one is. But he is good. And he will do his best to help us. Right now, we just need to stay calm, and stay where we are. Okay?” Finn nods wordlessly, hands flying to his utility belt. She can feel him thinking. His mind is so open, so bright compared to Hux's-- Compared to her own. Finn is already plotting about how he's going to get around her. Flee the station. Steal a ship. But the galaxy is vast, and he has no idea where to start looking for Snoke, let alone what he'd do if he found him. He's just going to have to trust her.

 

“Damn it, Ren!” Hux shouts. He hurls a stack of papers in frustration and Leia turns to see them fluttering to the floor. Finn looks back and forth between the two of them, startled. Hux scrubs at his eyes, sinking into the chair behind him, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. When he drops his hands, his face is burning red. “He took all my cigarettes,” he chokes.

 

 

-

 

 

The rest of the morning is an excruciating blank. Leia wanders through the atrium on an empty stomach, turning her comlink over and over again in her pocket. It was far too facile, telling Finn to stay put, while she herself nurses the same fantasy of tearing off alone on some doomed rescue mission. The weight of the slim metal cylinder against her palm is the only thing keeping her from utterly losing her mind. She can't give up yet, she thinks, not when it might chime at any moment. She can't just lie down and die, no matter how much she might feel like it. When it chimes, she has to be there to answer it. She repeats this to herself over and over again, though a part of her knows-- _knows_ \--that there won't be any further messages.

 

Leia practices taking deep breaths and releasing them slowly, trying to achieve a shallow meditative trance. The herbal vapor makes her sinuses tingle as she walks among the lacy trees, the feathery blue fronds rustling her skirts. She bends over to pick up a delicate leaf from the red clay path, twirling it by the stem between her fingers. The plants look so well kept, she thought at first they might be fake. They turn out to be real enough, but she hasn't seen anyone in here taking care of them. Most likely, they've been genetically modified to require less maintenance. But their presence in the first place is still strange. Nothing about the First Order suggests that they are particularly interested in gardening. She wonders what green-thumbed crime lord they must have rented this facility from. The landscaping is nice, a facsimile of the old Chandrilan style. Hux's own tastes in finery, unsurprisingly, tend more towards those of the old Imperial elite, though always, she has found, with the air of a child playing dress up-- He knows what is considered fine, but only in some cases, and he never seems to appreciate why.

 

She lets go of the leaf, watching it flutter back down to the ground. Her hair feels hot against he back of her neck. She reaches up with one arm to scoop it forward, letting the moist air touch her skin. Seizing a fistful of it, she brings it up to her face and inhales sharply. Her hair smells of the rosewater soap she brought with her to Othone. The same soap her mother Breha always used. Leia remembers Ben screaming when she got it in his eyes. She walks blind, pressing her face into her hair until her vision is stained blood-orange with the insides of her eyelids. The question of where she went wrong with him suddenly seems absurd. The wrongs, great and small, are too many to count. The question is, where did she ever go right?

 

She rubs her thumb and forefinger together, struck by a phantom impression of the leaf's waxy texture. She realizes suddenly why the trees are bothering her: They remind her of an old, recurring nightmare. She stops in her tracks, shaken. In the nightmare, she's lying with Han in a clearing on the Forest Moon of Endor. She's just beginning to stir, while Han is still asleep beside her. Rubbing the sand from her eyes, she looks down and sees vines wrapping themselves around her body, covering her with a blanket of waxy green leaves. When she struggles, they grab her by the wrists, yanking her arms open wide. They pierce her skin with long, tooth-like thorns, pinning her, cruciform, to the ground. She screams, and Han gets up to help her, but there is nothing he can do. The ground opens up, consuming her. Grasses and flowers explode all around her, nourished by her. The forest is drinking her blood.

  
She lowers her head, blinking away the residue of the nightmare. When she looks up again, a shadowy figure is approaching her through the mist. He is dressed in black, a dark grey shawl draped over his shoulders, a lightsaber swinging from his hip.

 

“Hmm.” She smiles. “I'm not so sure how I feel about the beard.” Luke doesn't smile back. His pale eyes meet her own, and Leia's face falls. It's hard for her to imagine, but she's heard he has Darth Vader's eyes. They've never made her feel so unsettled before. Her brother looks so ancient and strange. He seems to float, unreal, amidst the fog, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. Closing the distance between them, she reaches out and takes hold of both his hands. He looks so ghostly, that at first she half expects to pass right through him, but as soon as they touch, he seems to turn solid and snap into focus. His natural hand feels cool and dry, but the cybernetic one hums warmly in her grasp. She brings it up towards her face to examine it.

 

“How's this thing been holding up?” she asks. “What kind of maintenance have you been doing?”

 

“It was actually pretty glitchy for a while,” he says. “But, ah. Rey helped me fix it.” He shrugs his shoulders. “She's become quite the mechanic.”

 

Leia puts a hand to her mouth. She doesn't even know what to say to this. “What did you tell them when you checked into the station?” she asks the tips of her fingers.

 

“I didn't,” he says. “No one else knows I'm here.” Her heart clenches. After all his wandering, his voice still sounds the same. She throws her arms around his neck, and he immediately returns the embrace, his beard prickling her brow. She's been so alone with her grief, for so long. A hug is like a miracle. She closes her eyes, her shoulders beginning to shake.

 

“Ben is gone,” she sobs.

 

He grips her tighter. “Oh, Leia,” he gasps into her hair. “What do you mean?”

 

She pulls away, wiping the condensation from her eyes before it can be said to qualify as tears. “He ran off in the middle of the night,” she explains. “This morning, when I checked, they told me there were no ships missing from the hangar bay-- But if he was still on the station, I'd feel him. He's gone.”

 

Luke stills, gazing into the line of trees with that sober farmer's squint of his. He's searching for Ben's presence, among the thousands of others on board. “Oh, _Leia_ \--” He looks back up at her. “Leia, I'm so _sorry_.” He opens their bond wide, offering her everything he has left to give, and she takes grateful hold of it. “I should have been here earlier,” he says. “I should have been here for you.”

 

“Luke,” she stops him. “Later. We can apologize to each other later.” She slips a hand into her pocket. “There's something I have to show you now.” He nods, gripping his right wrist with his left hand, adopting a familiar, chivalric pose. The Jedi left him so little to go on-- She knows he made most of these things up himself, when he was twenty-four. But other people assume they're ancient, so they work just as well as if they were. She leads him down the red clay path towards the middle of the atrium. His footsteps are so quiet behind her, that she's half convinced he's disappeared as soon as she lets him out of her sight. It's so uncanny, that she actually glances back over her shoulder to check if he's still there.

 

In the center of the garden, she sits down on the edge of the green glass fountain, gesturing for him to join her. He alights beside her, as weightless as smoke. Leia frowns at him. She peers down into the dark water to make sure he has a reflection. “What is it?” Luke asks, concerned.

 

“Sorry,” she blurts. “I just--” She checks and double-checks their bond. It's been so long since they've seen each other. She can't quite believe he's really here. She relaxes her shields, willing herself to trust him, to let him in. “I've missed you so much,” she says.

 

He smiles at last, his eyes crinkling at the corners and beginning to well with tears. He's never been ashamed to cry in front of her, and for that he is stronger than she is, in some ways. “I've missed you, too,” he says. He seems real again, and Leia can feel him breathing beside her. “The last time we spoke, you said we were given to each other. To help each other.”

 

“By our parents,” she says. “They were never there for us. The only thing they ever gave us was each other.” She watches herself in the dark water of the fountain. Her silvery hair looks wild hanging loose. She could almost pass for some sort of mystic, too. “I vowed to do better for Ben,” she says, hanging her head. “I tried everything I could think of. But it wasn't enough.” Luke sends her a rush of warmth, yearning to comfort her. His mind drums with guilt. Thinking about all of his failures will sink him. She has to help him push through it, help him focus on what they can do now, instead of what they didn't do before. This is where she is the strong one. “That's all in the past,” she says. “Right now, we need to focus on the future. Luke.” She holds his gaze. “Tell me what you see.”

 

His eyes shimmer, staring sightlessly ahead, pupils contracting down to pinpricks of black. “There are too many possibilities,” he says. “Nothing's concrete yet. Have you meditated on it yourself?” He blinks at her, his pupils opening back up again.

 

Leia shrugs. “Whenever I try to see into the future,” she says, “all I get are these strange, nightmare images. Just-- feelings and dark shapes. Nothing I can hang on to. I've never had real visions the way you do. Not even in dreams.” She presses her lips together. “I think it's the same way for Ben.”

  
“Do you have any idea where he's gone?” Luke asks after a moment.

 

“Not exactly,” she says, straightening. “But I have some idea of _why_. That's what I wanted to show you.” She pulls out her comlink, and clicks it on, holding it up for him to read. The holographic display flickers to life, the letters of Ben's parting message floating in the air between them:

 

/ _Leia--_ / it reads.

 

/ _I've gone with him, but it's not what you think_./

 

/ _Don't try to come after me._ /

 

/ _I'm glad we had this chance to see each other again._ /

 

She clicks it off, slipping her comlink back into her pocket, and looks at Luke expectantly. “What do you think it means?” he asks.

 

“Well,” Leia snorts, “he says it's _not_ what I think. So I guess it must be something else.”

 

“A little presumptuous of him,” Luke notes.

 

“Let's not forget who we're talking about here,” she sighs. She studies Luke's profile, watching his pale lashes quiver as his eyes move back and forth over the red clay tile. She thinks of Obi Wan Kenobi, the hero of so many of the stories Bail used to tell her when she was a little girl. She imagines Kenobi and her parents together, in the lush, doomed times of their gilded youth, the last days of the Old Republic, in whatever sort of love the three of them were in. She and Luke have never been so young, so free. “Alright,” she says. “You've won me over. I've decided I'm okay with the beard.”

 

“What a relief,” he laughs.

 

The Force between them finally relaxes, and Leia unclenches her hands, drawing on their bond for strength. “Luke,” she sobers. “What are we going to do?”

 

“Well first,” he says, “you've gotta eat something.” She opens her mouth, ready to argue with him, and closes it again. She knows he's right, and her weakness fills her with shame. “And then,” he continues, “we've gotta start coming up with a plan.” He leans forward, scrubbing a pensive hand over he beard. “Who was the last person to talk to Ben before he left the station?”

 

“Luke,” she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “You know how I've said you always see the best in people? It's one of your most admirable qualities.” She folds her hands primly in her lap. “Well, we just might be about to put it to the test.”

 

 

-

 

 

The First Order high command, or what remains of it at this point, are all gathered in a private ballroom at the extreme end of one of the space station's spindly arms. Like all the other rooms, it's eggshell white, with gilded wainscoting and a hexagon-tiled floor. The ceiling is covered in a massive sheet of thin-beaten gold, polished to such a high shine that Leia can see their reflection in it. The gold gives everything a cheerful, yellow cast, creating the impression that beyond its surface lies a warmer version of the world below.

 

A group of men and women stand in a circle towards one wall, drinking what looks like water. Their dress announces them as high-ranking members of the First Order. They are debating about what to do, jaws tight with fear. Not a single one of them appears to be older than forty. Hux slaloms among them, occasionally tapping them on the shoulders. As Luke and Leia approach him, he is pestering a stately, pale-haired woman for a cigarette. He ignites his black fire wand, holding the tube between his teeth and lighting the end of it. The product of some obscure, impoverished world no doubt, the cigarette is rolled in bright paper, printed with delicate, stylized flowers.

 

“Hi there,” Luke smiles. Hux turns around, visibly startled, and jams the fire wand back into his pocket like he's trying to steal it. He looks to the pale-haired woman for support, but she's already moving away from him to talk to someone else. He takes a step towards Luke and Leia, leaving the virtual protection of the circle. The people behind him don't react, sipping their water and continuing their tense conversations. General Nai alone seems to notice them. Leia gives her a furtive nod and Nai eyes Luke skeptically before nodding back.

 

Hux presses his tongue to the roof of his open mouth. “Organa,” he gives Leia a curt bow, before turning to Luke. “And you must be Skywalker, right?” he says. He tilts his head back slightly, circling his lips around the bright red filter, without taking his eyes off of either of them. The smoke he blows is also dyed red, generously speaking. It's really more of a grey off-pink, but Leia can at least tell what they were going for with it. “Why can't they see you?” Hux asks, nodding over his shoulder at the others.

 

“Their attention is somewhere else,” says Luke. “They'd see us if they looked, but I'm discouraging them from noticing us.”

 

“Are you tricking their minds?” Hux grimaces in distaste. He glances around at his officers, but none of them will meet his eye. He is frightened, isolated, cornered. He takes another careful drag.

 

“Sort of,” says Luke.

 

“Well,” Hux hugs himself with his cup-bearing arm, looking thoroughly put out. “Do I look like I'm talking to no one right now? Or have I disappeared, too? Or what? What are you making them believe?”

 

“You're over-thinking it,” says Luke. “First of all, I can't disappear anything. I can't make anyone _believe_ anything. Not really, not in any sustained kind of way. It's just a mild suggestion. If they look at you, they'll see you.”

 

If Hux doesn't really seem satisfied by this explanation, he also doesn't have anything else to say about it. “I guess this is about Ren?” he asks. “Just like kriffing everything else in the galaxy?” He gestures angrily with his cup of water, blinking back tears. “He's not even here and he still won't leave me alone,” he says through a screen of red smoke, his lips trembling with misery.

 

Leia feels a twinge of pity towards him. It's so easy to forget who Hux is when he looks like that. “Is there somewhere more private where we can go to talk?” she asks.

 

“Sure,” Hux shrugs, morose. The usual scrim of drunkenness is missing from his presence. He is agonizingly sober. “Whatever my Lady wants. Perhaps you'll do me the honor of finishing me off this time.” At this, Luke flashes Leia a look of concern which she pretends not to notice.

 

“I believe we share a common enemy,” she says. “In order to defeat him, we're going to need to come up with a plan.”

 

“Oh, yes. Why not?” Hux snorts incredulously. “We plan and he laughs.” He leans back, taking a long drag and watching his reflection in the golden ceiling. Leia wonders if he finds the Hux in the ceiling to be warmer than himself. Waving languidly, he leads them to the other side of the ballroom, where a swing door opens into a large vestibule that would have been used to store coats if this were an actual party. There's a long bench in the middle meant for putting on and taking off shoes. Hux sits down on the bench, and Luke and Leia stand over him while the door closes itself behind them. It's quiet in here, the walls effectively muffling the conversation outside.

 

Luke sits down next to Hux on the bench, leaning forward intently. “I want to ask you about the last time you saw Ben,” he begins.

 

“Haven't we been over this?” Hux scorns, glancing up at Leia. “I don't know anything. He left in the middle of the night.” He finishes his water, tipping his ashes into the empty cup. “What's the point of questioning me like this anyway?” he asks. “If you think I'm hiding something, can't you just read my mind?”

 

Luke smiles. “It's not really that simple.”

 

“No, of course it's not.” Hux rolls eyes. “Nothing about the Force is ever simple. Gods I hate you all so much,” he withers. Luke reaches for Hux's presence, keeping his touch light. He's usually pretty good at making people feel receptive and comfortable, but Hux is a tough case. Luke closes his eyes, thinking about how best to proceed.

 

“Wait,” says Leia, touching Luke's elbow. How could she have forgotten to mention it before? “They're bonded,” she says.

 

“Really?” Luke raises one brow. He narrows his eyes at Hux and Hux shrinks away from him, uncomfortable. “Oh, yeah,” Luke says brightly, tilting his head as he notices this deviation in the contours of Hux's presence. “I can't believe I didn't notice it before. It feels so strong...” He strokes his beard, considering this. “Ben does tend to form very strong bonds. How long have you been cultivating it?”

 

Hux blinks up at Luke numbly, putting the cup down on the bench next to his thigh. “I didn't--” he stammers. “I certainly didn't do it on purpose. He made this... _thing_ , between us. He claims I helped him make it, but I don't know how.”

 

Luke frowns. “I'll put it another way,” he says gently. “How long have you been actively touching each other's minds?” He sends a soothing pulse out into the room, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

 

Hux wilts. His narrow shoulders slump and his arms hang loose at his sides. “I've known him for almost six years,” he says quietly. “I don't remember the first time he ever--” His gaze lifts, and he's talking to Luke but watching Leia's hands. “We worked together, on and off, on a lot of different operations, before Starkiller was completed. For a long time, I had no idea what sort of being he was. A lot of people said he wasn't human.” Hux rambles, his voice raspy and strange. “No one would have accused us of getting along. But after a while, there was a certain level of familiarity, I suppose. I suppose I-- I knew him better than anyone else in the First Order did, which wouldn't have been saying very much, except...”

 

“Except?” Luke prompts.

 

“Well,” says Hux, reddening boyishly, “except that he probably knew me better than anyone else, too. Which is to say, not very well,” he blinks. There's a trance-like quality to the way he's speaking now. His mouth is moving while the rest of him seems to be worrying about something else. He holds the half-consumed cigarette up to the light, grimacing at the taste of it, and resolves to give up on it, dousing it in the cup.

 

Luke pauses, waiting for Hux to meet his eye. Hux never does, so Luke continues anyway. “And at some point,” says Luke, “he started reaching out to you through the Force.”

 

“I felt Ren's mind,” says Hux, realizing it even as he says it, “before I ever saw his face. Snoke pitted us against each other, on purpose. Everything was always a game or a test with him. I think I knew that, on some level, even at the time. I think I knew I was just a grindstone for Snoke to sharpen his favorite weapon against. But I pretended to believe he really cared about the First Order. Because if I let myself realize he didn't-- Anyway, that's not the point.” He waves the non-point away with a sweep of his hand, continuing feverishly. “Snoke had Ren and me working together on various projects over the years. We saw the occasional bit of danger together, and got to know each other after a fashion. The way one does, in war. I don't remember when Ren started reaching out to me through the Force.”

 

Luke holds a beat.  “Do you remember when you started reaching back?”

 

“I--” Hux freezes. He shakes himself, the trance lifting like a cloud passing in front of a star. “Why-- Why am I telling you all this?” he sputters, his voice rising in alarm. Acting on instinct, he throws Luke from his mind.  Sustained, intimate contact with Ben has served to strengthen his defenses considerably. Perhaps without even realizing it, he's been practicing this technique. “What are you doing to me?!” he cries.

 

“Trying to put you at ease,” says Luke. “So you'll feel more comfortable talking to me. You don't have to. It's just a suggestion.”

 

Hux stands, hurling his cup of ashes against the wall. “Here's a suggestion, Jedi scum:” He glances between the two of them, his breathing ragged, his color high. “I suggest you get the hell off my space station and stay the hell out of my mind.” Marshaling himself, he makes a break for the door.

 

“Hux, wait,” Leia calls after him. He pauses at the threshold. He doesn't actually seem to have any idea where he's going. “Just tell me one last thing,” she pleads. “Do you want Kylo Ren back, or not?” He stares at the inside of the door, debating whether or not to rush through it.

 

“Your bond with him is very strong,” says Luke, rising. “Right now, we don't know where he is. But because of your connection, you might be able to help us find him.”

 

Hux tilts his forehead against the door, defeated. “I didn't ask for this,” he says. “I told him I didn't want it. That's why he left. I drove him away.”

 

Leia suffers another pang at this. She imagines them fighting. She imagines Hux's cruel words and Ben's pitiful tears. She knows she's letting herself get a little bit carried away. They've got much bigger problems now than Hux's charming personality. But even so. Luke puts a hand on her shoulder, giving her a compassionate squeeze. She feels like throwing him off.

 

“Hux,” she says, her voice thick with tears. “He loves you.” She hates this, being reduced to this. She hates that she can't hate Hux anymore, knowing that Ben loves him. She hates that Hux's misery affects her, because she shares this loss with him. She hates that she's pleading with him. “Help us bring him back.”

 

Hux turns around, finally looking her in the eye.

 

 

-

 

 

“I'm coming with you.”

 

Luke looks up from the fuel gauge he's been monitoring. He's hunched over an exterior panel on the small craft, his grey cape slung over one shoulder, a pair of dark goggles perched high on his head. He hops down from the platform he was standing on a moment ago and dusts off his hands. “You must be Finn,” he says. He favors Finn with a twinkling smile. “I've heard so much about you.”

 

Leia stands beside Finn in the middle of the hangar bay floor, crossing her arms over her chest. “Luke,” she says wearily, “please explain to our valiant young friend here why he can't go with you.”

 

Finn stands tall as Luke approaches him, his eyes glistening with determination. “I foresaw this meeting between us,” says Luke, bowing his head. “But I didn't realize it would be under such dire circumstances.”

 

“You have to let me come with you,” says Finn.

 

“If you keep this up,” Leia tells him, “I might have to throw you in the brig, for your own safety.” She gathers her shawl around herself, shivering. It's cold out here, under the stars.

 

“What brig?” Finn frowns.

 

“We'll get one,” she warns, “and we'll throw you in it.”

 

Luke sends her a wash of tranquility across their bond, and she pushes back at him, resentful. Sometimes his calm makes her want to punch him. “Why do you want to come with us?” he asks, addressing Finn but looking at Leia, his eyes imploring.

 

“Because,” says Finn, reaching up to pare away the high, stiff collar of his dress uniform. He turns around and shows Luke the back of his neck, revealing his metallic spinal implant, surrounded by angry scar tissue. “I have a life debt,” he says, glaring over his shoulder. He turns back around, hooking his thumbs into the leather loops on his utility belt. “And I know Rey would do the same for me.”

 

Luke raises his natural hand, testing the air, and lowers it again. “Ben did that to you,” he says sadly. He takes off the goggles, turning them over and over in his hands. “You know... we're going to rescue him, too. We're going to save Kylo Ren.”

 

“Yeah, I know that,” says Finn.

 

Luke nods. “You don't want revenge against him?” he asks.

 

Finn chews his lip, considering this. “No,” he says. “I mean,” he throws up his hands, “what good would it do _me_ , right? I don't wanna hurt Ren, any more than I wanna hurt anyone else. I just want Rey to be okay.”

 

“Hux is coming with me,” says Luke. Leia can feel him scanning Finn's presence, searching for signs and weaknesses. “I believe he can lead us to them.”

 

Finn stands his ground. “I know that, too.”

 

Leia steps between them. “You want to be stuck on that little ship with him?” she asks. “Finn, think this through!” Maybe she ought to listen to him more. Maybe she doesn't treat him like enough of an adult. But this is not the time to start worrying about those things. Not when he's being so unreasonable.

 

“I _have_ thought it through,” he cries. “I'm not stupid, okay. I know what we're talking about here.”

 

The fuel tank beeps, and Luke turns around to detach the hose. He wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. “I tried to teach her,” he says distantly. He looks so small, Leia thinks, backlit by whirls of stars. “I hope what I tried to teach her is doing her some good, wherever she is now. But she is... susceptible to the Dark Side.” He plants a hand on the hull of the ship, leaning his weight against it. Leia reaches out to him, instantly sorry for rebuffing him a moment ago. Her brother needs her now. He manages it well, but he is in such terrible pain. Luke studies Finn's face, his eyes clouded with anguish. “She hates Ben for what he did to you,” he says. “When she trained with me, she thought only of gaining enough power to destroy him.”

 

“She won't turn to the Dark Side,” says Finn. “I know her.” He hefts his rucksack, ready for the journey ahead. “Rey's not like that.”

 

Luke stares sightlessly into Finn's eyes, until Leia grabs him by the arm, pulling him around to the other side of the ship. They huddle together, just outside of Finn's earshot. “What are you doing?” she whispers urgently.

 

Luke studies their feet. “Finn has to come with me,” he says.

 

“Are you out of your mind?” she rasps. “That poor kid defected from the First Order. He came to us with nothing, and he's helped us out a lot. And now you want to go and get him killed?”

 

“Rey loves him,” says Luke. “And her love for him is far greater than her hatred of Ben.” He takes Leia's hand, willing her to understand him. “I believe that he can help me save her.”

 

She can feel his conviction, his desire to pursue this. She trusts him and loves him. But he has been wrong before. “Damn it, Luke,” she says, looking down at the spot he was studying moments ago. “Alright.” She pushes her forehead against his upper arm, sending him her nameless feelings.

 

A part of Leia wishes she could go with them. She wishes she didn't have to stay here with Nai, and keep galactic civilization as they know it from crumbling. But the galaxy has always come first for her, and it always will. Ben is only her son. There are trillions of sons. And she is only his mother. The inside of her chest is a black hole. “I hope you're right,” she says to Luke. “I hope you're right about all of this.” Standing on tiptoe, avoiding the beard, she presses a quick kiss to the side of his cheek. For luck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr:  
> [theeascetic.tumblr.com](http://theeascetic.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a warning for this chapter: potentially disturbing themes of medical abuse/ experimentation

The first thing Kylo notices when consciousness returns to him is the smell of ashes. He's lying on his side with his face smooshed against a musty, crushed velvet sofa cushion, his arm trapped awkwardly beneath his body. The darkness presses on his eyes, so thick he wonders for a moment if he's gone blind. Reaching out with the Force, he finds himself alone, in a large, echoing chamber. Everything around him is covered in a layer of carbon dust. He struggles briefly, hauling himself into a sitting position, pins and needles shooting up his arm as he shakes it free. When he leans back on the sofa cushion, the rotting velvet crumbles under his hands. His skin feels itchy and dirty. The side he slept on is covered in a pollen-fine layer of dry rot. He tries to brush himself off, but all he's doing is spreading it around.

 

Standing on trembling legs, he pats his body, checking to make sure it's all there. He reaches for his utility belt, finding his lightsaber and the crystal dagger right where he left them. He has no idea how long he's been sleeping. He feels hungry-blurry and beaten-sore. The agitated dust floats back down towards the floor, wrenching a sneeze from him and then another, and soon he can't stop. He covers his face with the inside lining of his officer's jacket, sneezing and hacking. Holding the corner of the jacket up with one hand, he unclips his lightsaber with the other, fumbling for the ignition switch with a weak thumb. The blade crackles to life, almost unbearably bright against the otherwise total darkness. Once his eyes have adjusted, he's able to perceive the outlines of furniture. The decaying sofa he woke up on is flanked by two tall, straight backed chairs. He turns around, holding out his lightsaber, and finds a crescent-shaped table surrounded by four smaller tables that might be writing desks. Squinting into the distance, he sees what look like tree trunks but must be columns.

 

He shuffles forward, finding the floor smooth, and hard, and slippery with ashes. He almost falls twice making his way across it. His legs are cramped and stiff, and his saber arm still prickles and burns from his sleeping on top of it. He stops, his nose buried in the lining of his jacket, inhaling his own sweat and contemplating his next move. A few meters ahead of him, the floor drops off abruptly into a shelf of shadow. Taking a few steps towards the edge, he realizes it's a shallow flight of stairs, leading down to another wide platform below.

 

He reaches out with the Force again, his heart shuddering with loss when he still can't find any other sentient minds close by. Back on Othone Station, he allowed himself too many lingering sips from the brilliant river of other peoples' thoughts. Now, like a tick plucked from its warm host fat with blood, his mind continues to suck at the empty air. Months without Snoke's harsh discipline have made him complacent, allowed the Light to creep back in. The hunger is whet as a knife in his belly, but there's no one here to feed it with.

 

The dust burns his sinuses, making his nose drip with thin mucus. His mind flings itself uselessly outward in search of comfort, but all he can feel is death. He was supposed to have mastered this. For fifteen years, he worked to gradually ween himself off of it. There were moments of weakness of course, when his shallow dips into the minds of random stormtroopers lasted longer than he intended-- long enough for Snoke to notice, and punish him accordingly. But for the most part, he was on the path to recovery, to wholeness. Or so he had believed.

 

He thinks of how his training first began. He would wait, as he was told to, in some some abandoned shipyard, or in a quiet forest clearing, and Snoke would bring him people-- usually, but not always, members of the First Order --who were panicked and wondering what they'd done. When they saw Kylo's face, the face of a child back then, they would beg him for mercy. And then Snoke would order him to tear through their minds. These people weren't like Leia. They would scream.

 

For every moment Kylo hesitated, he would receive a jolt of pain. Each time he began instinctively mirroring the prisoner, communing with them and comforting them, Snoke would punish him. People's minds were filled with traps: unique sensations, cherished memories, secret hopes. Over time, he learned to resist their pull. With the Dark Side as his ally, he learned to ignore their desperate pleas, to observe their thoughts and emotions without experiencing them. At the height of his powers, he could interrogate a prisoner with ruthless efficiency, in singular pursuit of his goal, without ever pausing to enjoy their mental touch. It was always torture, as agonizing for Kylo as it was for his victims. He would enter their minds like a surgical drill, boring straight through to the relevant information, keeping his instrument perfectly steady. A wrong move in any direction, and he risked the possibility of feeling warmth, connection, pleasure. On the rare occasions when this did happen, Snoke was swift to correct him with an equal or greater measure of suffering. In this way, his weakness became his strength, and his sickness was harnessed into a useful tool.

 

At the top of the stairs, he leans against a stone pillar for balance, peering over the edge. Crouching for stability, he lowers his lightsaber, trying to discern the outline of the steps. He walks sideways, leading with his right foot, pressing his instep into the join of each stair so as to avoid slipping on the edges as he makes his way down. The ashes are thicker at the bottom, the air even harder to breathe. He looks back up the way he came, wondering if he ought to start over from the sofa.

 

After his successful interrogation of Poe, he had felt invincible. He can't imagine that feeling now. It had seemed like such a breakthrough for him, resisting the temptation of a familiar, once-coveted presence. Poe's mind had recognized him, called to him, and he had brutally shoved its promises of friendship aside. But later, alone in his quarters, the thrill of mastery began to recede, leaving only the hunger. Poe had put the ache back in him again, the pull of the Light. It was madness to think he could touch Rey after that, and not get burned, but he was so desperate to prove himself. Pretending to himself that he didn't recognize her. Of course, she cored right through him like a laser. Of course, her Light was too much for him to withstand.

 

He freezes at the foot of the stairs. Rey's Light. Her presence. So faint, but unmistakable. She is here. Straining his focus, Kylo tests the air for her general direction.

 

Down. He has to keep going down.

 

Pulling his jacket back over his nose and mouth, he wades up to his knees in the ashes. He tries clearing a path with the Force, but disturbing the dust makes him choke. He should be able to repel it more completely, to keep it away from his face, but his reach is imprecise. Pain and exhaustion are affecting his focus, and particulate matter is especially difficult to manipulate with the Force. A coughing fit makes him drop his lightsaber, plunging him into total darkness. Recalling it to his hand, he clips it to his belt again, not even bothering to reignite it. His eyes are too clouded with dust to see anything anyway. Rey's fading presence is his only guide. The drive to find her and protect her fires him from within, giving him new strength, and he forges ahead blindly, forearms crossed protectively over his face.

 

The minute or so it takes him to reach the back of the room feels like an eternity. He presses his hands against the wall and they sink into a layer of fetid muck. Scraping away the rotted carbon, he feels along the smooth stone beneath it for any breaks or seams. Eventually he finds the door and throws his weight against it, but it's stuck fast in the sludge. Rolling his shoulders, he takes a few steps back and throws up his hands, pushing against it with the Force. The door flies open, spraying muck into the hall outside, and he staggers through it into the light.

 

Kylo blinks the dust from his eyes, finding himself in what was once, by the looks of it, a grand corridor lined with red marble columns. Great chunks of ceiling lie piled on the floor, and twisting green ivy covers the walls, sprouting up out of the humus of decaying ashes. Above him stretches a sky so blue it looks painted on, dotted with cotton-wad clouds. He takes several deep breaths and pushes them out through his nose, trying to clear his sinuses. He feels disgusting, even more so in the open air. His clothes are filthy with soot and sweat, and the right side of his body is covered in a thin film of blood-red powder. He wrinkles his nose in recognition: The rotted velvet from the sofa cushion rubbed off on him while he slept, like the powdery scales of a butterfly's wings.

 

A thrill shoots down his spine. This thought doesn't belong to him. It's coming from somewhere outside. He closes his eyes, picturing the red-gold butterfly's slaloming course through the air as it disappears beyond the sweet pea vines. A messenger, that will lead him to Rey. She must be sending him this image. Calling on him to protect her!

 

He clambers over piles of loose debris in pursuit of the feeling. It's leading him towards the end of the hall. The way is dim, punctuated by shafts of natural light that descend from the holes in the ceiling. This building isn't just deteriorating from neglect: It was firebombed. Many years ago, judging from the state it's in. He reaches the end of the colonnade and takes a left turn, passing through a series of once-opulent rooms. Moth-eaten curtains sway in the breeze coming in from the outside. Marble, glass, and gold leaf glint subtly from beneath the grime. Something about the place tugs at him, but he never breaks his stride. He doesn't have time to wonder about what must have happened here. Rey needs him.

 

The memory of the butterfly leads him into a courtyard, overgrown with weeds and vines. At the center is a reflecting pool filled with dark green standing water that reeks of sulfur. Kylo licks his cracked lips, eyeing the water but deciding against it. All the way around the perimeter stand life-sized granite statues of women in kimonos. He slows down, careful of his footing as he makes his way over the slick carpet of moss. Drawn to them for reasons he doesn't understand, he stops to spare the statues a closer look. At the base of each one is a copper plate, engraved in both Basic and a script he doesn't recognize, the deep grooves of the letters filled with muck. _Queen Yram, Queen Jamillia, Queen Neeyutnee, Queen Soruna_. Their stone faces are stately and serene, looking somewhere between brand new women and ancient children. Queens, he startles. But of what? Where in the galaxy is this place? He comes to a halt before one of the figures, the sight of her freezing his heart in his chest. She stands proud, hands folded decorously inside her sleeves, her slim neck supporting a positively architectural headdress that looks like it must have weighed more than she did in real life. But that's not what separates her from the others.

 

This statue has been effaced, the features marred beyond all recognition. It's obviously not weathering, but a deliberate act of vandalism. Her name has been scoured from the copper plate. Kylo reaches up to trace the crater where the mystery queen's face ought to be with a trembling hand, and something deep inside him _aches_.

 

He remembers looking through old, blue-tinted holos once, and asking Leia why some of the people's faces were blurred out with static. During the Empire, she had explained, there was a policy called Condemnation of Memory, by which certain people had been ritually erased. Documents were redacted, holos altered, all depictions and mentions of these people officially destroyed. Many prominent figures of the Old Republic, along with the entire Jedi Order, had been Condemned in this way. The purpose of this practice was not necessarily to fool everyone into forgetting these people had ever existed. In order for the lie to function, it wasn't necessary that anyone actually believe in it-- Only that everyone _behave_ as if it were true.

 

The queen seems to glare accusingly down at him from atop her pedestal. _This was done to me_ , her crumbling, featureless face seems to say. _But you-- You did this to yourself_. Kylo moves his tongue over the outside of his teeth, feeling ash and grit along the edges of his gums. Tilting his head back, he coughs and spits the resulting mucus at her feet. If he could have, he would gladly have sentenced Ben Solo to Condemnation of Memory. Within the First Order at least, Snoke had made it forbidden to mention his past, his connection to Leia, or even to speak his name. Of course, this didn't completely stop gossip about him from circulating. But in the First Order, image was reality. To Kylo, that had meant he could finally reinvent himself as the person he wanted to be.

 

He steps away from the statue, his boots skating over the slippery, moss covered ground. Shaking himself out of his reverie, he finds he's lost track of Rey's butterfly. He whirls around, frantically casting his mind out into the Force in search of it.

 

On the far side of the courtyard stands an ivy covered wall set with a heavy, vault-like door. A keypad next to it chirps and flashes, as if someone's entering a code into it, and the door swings itself open. Narrowing his eyes, Kylo makes his way around the reflecting pool, casting a dark green shadow over its quivering skin of algae. He approaches the doorway, unclipping his lightsaber and holding it out in front of himself, unlit. It's dark inside, but he can see the outlines of furniture. He crosses the threshold, shoulders hunched with caution. Amber lights flicker on, sensing his entrance, and he hears the distant hum of a power generator. He glances around, taking gulps of sanitized, recirculated air. The room beyond the door remains untouched by whatever disaster befell this place. In fact, there doesn't even seem to be any dust.

 

The door swings shut behind him, locking itself with an ominous series of clicks. He shuffles forward, the grip on his lightsaber tightening. It's some sort of parlor or lounge, full of beautiful sofas and low tables. There's even a silver tea set, complete with a dish of sugar cubes and a delicate pair of tongs for serving them. A rice paper screen decorated with elegant paintings of long-necked birds bisects the room. Shadows move behind it, like a group of people sitting in a circle, accompanied by the hum of machinery. Rey's butterfly is nowhere to be found.

 

Kylo's heart plummets. This is a game, he realizes. One he didn't come here prepared to play. “Where is she?” he asks. The rice paper screen parts, folding open at the center, and Snoke glides soundlessly into the room, his hands hidden within the sleeves of his silver-black cloak. Kylo looks down to find he's tracked muck all over the pale carpet. His skin itches. His saber arm is still half-numb.

 

“How do you feel?” Snoke asks. Already answering his question with a question. The game is well in progress, and he's already so many steps behind.

 

Kylo works his jaw, his gaze fixed on a thorn of amber light reflecting off the handle of the silver sugar tongs. “Where are we?” he demands. “What is this place?”

 

Snoke looks mild. Kylo has never seen him smile, but the look on his face now is close. “Theed Palace,” Snoke says. “On Naboo.” The distance between them vanishes without warning, and suddenly Kylo is staring directly up into Snoke's face. “Don't be afraid,” Snoke says. “I mean you no harm.” His left cheek is lacy with holes, his pebble-like teeth glinting through them. His left eye looks like it's in danger of sliding off his face, like a drib of melted wax. He's standing so close that Kylo's unlit saber hilt is almost pressed against his belly. Kylo strokes the ignition switch with a hesitant thumb, taking a deep breath through his nose. Despite having the appearance of a living corpse, Snoke carries no discernible smell. “Oh, Child,” Snoke shakes his head. “You already know you won't be able to destroy me that way.” He doesn't even bother to look down at the saber. It's no threat to him at all. Trembling, Kylo lowers the weapon, clipping it to his belt. He feels pathetic. He feels like curling into a ball on the floor. Instead, he looks up into Snoke's milky eyes.

 

“Where is Rey?” he repeats. “I know she's here. Why can't I feel her presence?”

 

Snoke turns his back to Kylo, gliding into the middle of the room. “Did you know that Naboo was the homeworld of Emperor Palpatine?” he asks. He continues, not waiting for Kylo to respond. “He arranged for the destruction of the capital city of Theed in the event of his demise. All the human settlements have since been abandoned, and the native species have retaken the planet.” He sighs. “Human beings are so very fickle, aren't they? Relying on creatures like you has been my mistake.”

 

The amber lights flicker. Kylo takes a shuddering breath. “You let me fall in love with Hux,” he says. “So you could order me to kill him. It was another test.” He lowers his head, resting his chin against his collar bone. “Because killing Han Solo didn't work.”

 

“No,” says Snoke. “I made no such plans.” He narrows his eyes. “Your betrayal of me was a surprise. Your feelings for General Hux have long been obvious to me, but I saw no danger in them, because I never imagined he would return them.”

 

“He doesn't,” says Kylo. “He hates me. He's terrified of me.”

 

“You are wrong,” says Snoke. “Hux is merely... confused.” He turns to face Kylo, clasping his spindly grey hands. “There is no reason why you shouldn't keep him for yourself now. I can help you.”

 

Kylo frantically shakes his head. “No--” he stammers, “I don't want you to. _Make_ Hux love me.”

 

“That won't be necessary,” says Snoke. “His feelings for you are strong, but he is filled with fear. If you can prove to him that you are the only one who is capable of protecting him, then he will choose to be yours willingly.”

 

“Protect him?” Kylo breathes. “You mean, from _you?_ ”

 

Snoke looks Kylo up and down, as if seeing him for the very first time. “There is something I need from you, my Child,” he says. “And if you give it to me, I promise never to harm Hux again. If you do as I ask, I will give you the power to keep him safe, and I will ensure that you enjoy a long and happy life together.”

 

“What?” Kylo asks, his heart thrilling in disbelief. He imagines gathering Hux up in his arms and taking him far away. His scattered thoughts are drawn to this notion like iron fillings to a magnet. He can see them together now, basking in the light of some distant sun. Could it still be possible? A life without pain, without fear, without responsibility. A life with his Love. “What about Rey?” he asks. “If I do what you ask, will you let her go?”

 

“I will release her,” says Snoke, “when I have what I need.”

 

Kylo takes a step towards the rice paper screen, bringing a hand to his mouth. “She's behind it,” he says. “Isn't she?” He searches the Force for Rey's Light, growing frantic when he still comes up against nothing. “What have you done with her?” he cries. He rushes towards the screen, and Snoke raises a hand, lifting him just a few centimeters off the floor.

 

“Are you surprised,” Snoke asks, sniffing the air in thought, “by the strength of your feelings for her? Your desire to protect her?” Kylo kicks and struggles, his foot catching the edge of the table and sending the tea tray flying. Snoke looms closer, holding him in place. “You were ready to deliver her to me, before,” he says. “What has changed?”

 

Kylo tries to bring himself back down, but he can't figure out how to turn his reach inward, how to manipulate his own body with the Force as he would another object. The toes of his boots just barely scrape the floor, but he can't find purchase enough to stand. He falls slack in Snoke's grip, closing his eyes. “Put me down,” he says softly.

 

Snoke hums as if considering this. “I'm not sure that's wise,” he says, before raising his hand and lifting Kylo higher into the air so that his feet can't reach anything below. With a sweep of his other hand, he pulls back the screen. Rey is lying unconscious on what must have been the queen's bed, dressed in nothing but a plain white shift, her head shaved bald, her body enclosed in a shield of glass. She looks unreal, suspended in time. Medical droids hover beside her, in front of what must have been the queen's bureau.

 

Panic-rage fills Kylo's chest, and the furniture begins to shake. He drives his fingernails into his palms. Control. He must find control. He must learn the rules of this game, if he is going to have any hope of winning it. “What is this?” he cries. “What do you want from me?” He can't look at Rey. His stomach is clenched like a fist. Snoke lowers him down to the floor and he stumbles before regaining his balance by grabbing the back of a sofa.

 

“Very good,” Snoke says. “You understand.” He glances wistfully towards Rey. “I want you to give me a child.”

 

“What?” Kylo asks, righting himself. Surely, he's misheard. A child? He follows Snoke's gaze, and his heart stops. He staggers back in horror.

 

“I can make it painless for you,” says Snoke. And Kylo understands. Snoke is offering to reach into his mind and take away the guilt, so that Kylo will be able to do the unthinkable without feeling anything. After all, he's done it before, so many times.

 

“What's wrong with her?” Kylo asks. “What have you done?”

 

“She's in a coma,” says Snoke. “An implant regulates her brain activity, creating a powerful conduit for focusing the child's connection to the Force. Once I have what I require, the implant can be removed, and her consciousness can be restored.” Kylo presses his palms against the glass casket, his shoulders heaving with anguish. He can't feel her. She is a black hole in the Force, where a brilliant star used to be. Her mind feels blank-- Just like Snoke's mind.

 

“She's empty,” he sobs. “Her mind is empty.”

 

“In this state, she cannot influence you with her thoughts,” says Snoke. He cants his head in confusion. “Is that not ideal, for you?”

 

Kylo turns away from the casket, running to the corner of the room and vomiting up Hux's ration bar. He sobs and grips the wall, the sour mixture of acid and chocolate burning his throat. He can feel Snoke approaching him from behind, his unmistakable un-presence shimmering in the Force like a mirage. Drawing his lightsaber, he whirls around and drives the hilt into Snoke's body, igniting the blade and piercing him through the heart.

 

Snoke silently collapses, black blood spilling from his open mouth. Kylo drops his saber in shock as the corrosive blood drips down the hilt and burns his hand. The hilt rolls away from him, hissing and sparking. Snoke's presence in the Force is fracturing, the smooth, impenetrable surface cracking open to reveal the alien thoughts and feelings beneath. Kylo feels himself being drawn into it. He reaches for his dark lens, trying to protect himself, but before he can stop it, the Light is rushing in and filling him, burning everything else away. The floor drops out from under him, a billion stars streaking by him as he falls forever through the void. When he opens his eyes again, he is inside Snoke's mind.

 

-

 

His earliest memory is of waking alone in a basin of ashes. He is very young and frightened, and there is no one there to soothe his pain. He wails for what feels like many rotations, but no one comes to his answer his cries. At last, he pulls himself up out of the dark cave, and wanders the desolated landscape of his home planet, searching for any other survivors. He grows weak with hunger and thirst. The rivers have gone dry and the land has turned to dust.

 

He finds a pair of beings with a strange machine. Later, he will learn that they are scientists, and that this is their space ship. Once he has learned all he can from them, he devours them whole, and uses their ship to leave the planet in search of better things.

 

He learns that his home has been destroyed by a race of beings called humans. This wasn't their intention. They were conducting an experiment in space, and their machines filled his home planet's atmosphere with radiation, killing almost everything on its surface. He doesn't hate them for this. He doesn't yet understand hate.

 

His people knew nothing of space travel. They had never been contacted by another sentient species before the day of their annihilation. They lived in symbiosis with their world, the entire planet forming a single organism. They didn't fear death, since when they died, their bodies and minds would be reabsorbed into the planet, and they would live again. But now, the connection he once shared with his people is gone, and he is all alone, the last of his kind. As he learns more, he begins to realize that one day he will die, and with his home planet gone, he will never be reborn. He becomes terrified of death, and desperate to prevent it by any means necessary.

 

Kylo sees Snoke as he was, a handsome, curious-looking creature, with smooth white skin and wide silver eyes. He travels the galaxy, searching for answers, for a way to stop death, until his travels bring him to Naboo. There, he observes a young human named Sheev. Sheev is powerful with what his people called the One, and what he has learned the humans call the Force. As a member of the Nabooan gentry, Sheev was born into enormous wealth and privilege, yet he despises his family and almost every around him. He craves knowledge and power, of the kind his father Cosinga can't give him. He spends long hours in the libraries of Theed University, studying the history of an ancient order of warriors called the Sith. But there's not enough information here to satisfying him. He is frustrated and angry, and his presence in the Force is cold.

 

Snoke travels far and wide, learning all he can about these Sith, and their supposed ability to stop death. One day, he appears to Sheev, and offers to be his master. He gives himself a false Sith name. He impresses the child with a show of his power. Sheev kneels before him and pledges his loyalty, and Snoke gives him his own Sith name. Sheev is young. This is all an exciting, forbidden game to him. He doesn't know that Snoke plans to learn the secrets of the Sith, so that he can steal Sheev's body and escape death.

 

When Sheev is seventeen, Snoke orders him to kill his father Consinga, as a test of loyalty. And he does. He is eager to inherit his father's estate. The tears of his mother and sisters don't move him. Snoke can tell he is not like other humans, in this respect.

 

Many years pass, and Sheev grows skilled with the Force and influential in Naboo society. Snoke's repeated attempts to steal his body end in failure. It's not like being reabsorbed into his own planet. There is nothing in Sheev's body that recognizes him. And so he crafts a new plan.

 

There is a Sith legend of generation. The ability to create life through the Force. It's possible, he realizes, to grow his own host body, a body made to accept his soul into it. He severs a part of his soul, using it to create the child. A human child, strong in the Force. He will take its body, and he will become one of these strange and terrible creatures, and he will escape death.

 

Sheev learns of the plan. In his jealousy and rage, he turns on his master and attempts to kill him. When he's satisfied that Snoke is dead, he goes to claim the child himself, as his own Sith apprentice. But Snoke isn't dead. Not quite, though his body is has been mutilated beyond all recognition. He lies in agony for what seems like years, his mind unraveling. The child. The sliver of his soul within the child is anchoring him to life.

 

He retreats into the damp caves of a wild planet to lick his wounds in solitude. Though he has suffered terribly, he has at last achieved victory over death. As long as Anakin lives, Snoke himself cannot be killed, for the lifeforce of Anakin's body keeps a sliver of his soul alive. By the time Anakin is lying on the shores of Mustafar, a smoldering ruin of his former self, Snoke has no need of him. He has been kind enough to produce offspring, who will carry the sliver within them in his stead. Snoke is too weak to claim the girl, Leia's, body. But by the time he has regained enough of his lost strength to leave his cave, she has produced a child of her own.

 

Ben is nothing like Sheev. He must be tended, and pruned, and coaxed open, like a rosebush. It takes many years of careful work to lead him into the Dark. He has been too long under the influence of his mother. He has formed feelings and attachments. Ben has a will of his own, however attenuated, and in order to take his body, Snoke realizes, he must break his mind. He orders Ben to kill his father, but even this isn't enough to break him. And then there's Rey.

 

Why bother with Ben, decides, if he can have a new child? A blank slate, with no mind of its own. He would keep it isolated, make sure it never learned anything, and when the time came, he would harvest its body.

 

“Bring her to me,” he says. Already he is making new plans. He will allow Ben's pain and loneliness to fester. When Snoke presents him with the girl as a mate, he will not refuse. He imagines the future, when the entire galaxy is under his control. He will harvest human bodies, one after another, and never have to die. He thinks of the suffering their kind have caused him. They will repay it a hundred times. Every being in the galaxy will be his slave. He watches Ben leave the chamber, black robes swishing behind him, and his eyes narrow in anger. General Hux will have to be dealt with, of course.

 

-

 

Kylo opens his eyes. He's sprawled on his side, his cheek pressed against the cold marble floor. Snoke's crumpled body lies a few meters away in a spreading pool of corrosive black blood. The marble beneath him is slowly dissolving and crumbling like chalk. Vision swimming, Kylo rolls over unto his hands and knees and pushes himself to his feet.

 

He staggers numbly towards the glass casket. The sight of Rey is a beacon in the darkness. His mind is a roaring blank. His only thought is of getting her out of this place. He stoops to pick up his discarded lightsaber and thumbs the ignition switch. The melted hilt throws a few sparks before dying, but the blade doesn't appear. Unable to cut through the blaster-proof glass, he pounds it with the butt of his saber, swinging with all his might until the surface begins to crack. Panting, he glances fearfully over his shoulder. Snoke's body lies motionless. Kylo lifts the hilt high into the air and brings in down in a swift arc, punching a hole in the casket about the size of his fist. This isn't going to work. Layers of lommite prevent the entire sheet from shattering in one piece. Gathering the Force to himself, he pries the cracks open, doing his best to shield Rey from the splintering glass. Once the opening is large enough, he reaches in and lifts her out, gathering her up into his arms. Clipping the ruined hilt to his belt, he takes a few shuffling steps, grunting under her limp weight as he looks for a better grip position. Either she's gotten significantly heavier since the last time he carried her, or he's become a lot weaker.

 

Suddenly, the floor is rumbling beneath his feet. A black mass gathers around Snoke's fallen body, corroding everything it touches, undulating and spreading. The ceiling groans, dark wood support beams beginning to splinter. Hefting Rey's body, Kylo stumbles towards the door, throwing his shoulder against it. The black mass swells, climbing the walls behind him, swallowing the furniture. The amber lights fizzle, plunging the room into darkness. The queen's bed chamber is collapsing around them, the marble floor crumbling into sand beneath Kylo's feet. He slams his body futility against the vault-like door. The animal is panicking. He reaches desperately for Rey's mind, but she remains inaccessible to him. With a final burst of effort, he uses the Force to reach into the locking mechanism and jam the door open, tumbling out into the courtyard just as the ceiling supports give way.

 

He falls on top of Rey, shielding her from the hail of rubble, repelling it as best he can with the Force. As soon as the dust has settled, he hauls himself to his feet again, scooping her up in his arms. Though unresponsive, she is still alive. The animal is breathing again. A thrill of shudder-wonder courses through him, galvanizing his will. He's going to get her out of here. As he slides, dangerously top-heavy, over the mossy floor of the courtyard, the granite queens seem almost to cheer him on. Finding surer ground, he takes off running as fast as the weight of Rey's body in his arms will allow.

 

It takes reaching the end of the colonnade for Kylo to realize he has no idea where he's going. He stops to catch his breath, glancing around. He's got to get them off the planet. He's going to need a ship. A dubious proposition. Snoke mentioned that the human settlements had all been abandoned.

 

A palace like this, he figures, has got to have a hangar bay. The bombed-out hallway where he started struck him as being towards the perimeter of the complex, so he decides to head back in that direction. He extends his feelings, trying to get a sense of the rooms around them, but without any sentient minds to connect to, he's just groping in the dark.

 

At the other end of the hallway, there's a defunct turbolift. The buttons on the control panel are labeled in that same mysterious script-- Nabooan, he figures. A diagram next to the control panel shows a stylized image of what looks to be an exterior view of the palace, perched high atop a sheer bluff surrounded by waterfalls. There's an arrow pointing to what Kylo guesses must be their current location. He squints at the diagram. There's a kind of shelf a few levels above them that might be a landing platform. Eyeing the stairwell next to the turbolift, he slumps against the wall, taking a moment to rest. His nose itches, but with Rey in his arms, he can't reach it. He rubs his face against his shoulder, trying to scratch.

  
His muscles are beginning to shake with fatigue, but setting Rey down for even a moment seems out of the question. The only thing that matters now is getting her out of this place, and finding a way to reverse whatever's been done to her. He slinks along the wall towards the stairwell, screwing his eyes shut. His discomfort is irrelevant-- Rey is precious, Rey is human, he is nothing.

 

He remembers the day Ben and Luke found her on Jakku, in the shell of a downed star destroyer, her cries echoing through its vast, empty hull. The exposure of unwanted infants, Luke had explained, was unfortunately common on poor planets, including his own homeworld of Tatooine. Luke himself had always been grateful to his Uncle Own and Aunt Beru for rescuing him from such a fate. This baby's parents were probably young, he said gently. In desperate circumstances, unable to feed her. Ben didn't care-- He hated them for making her cry like that. How could anyone fail to recognize her Light? he thought. How could anyone turn away from it?

 

“He let me name you,” Kylo rasps, pretending she can hear him. “I wanted to name you after him at first, because I had been named after his Jedi teacher, but he wouldn't hear of it.” He chuckles sadly, contemplating the stairs. Heaving, he covers half the first flight before pausing to catch his breath. “Luke mean's 'Light' you know, in Classical Basic,” he pants. “Luca is the feminine form. I thought it would suit you.” Her head lolls in his grip. There are three steel staples at the base of her shaved skull, where the implant must have been inserted. The skin around the incision is swollen and red. The sight of the wound, and what it signifies-- the knowledge of what Snoke intended to do with her --brings Kylo to his knees in the middle of the stairwell. He crumples, sobbing and cradling her limp body in his lap.

 

His mind is spinning. Was Snoke right? Before Hux shook him from the trance, would he have willingly handed her over? Would he have betrayed her for Snoke, as he did Luke, Han, and Leia? It's too terrible to contemplate. But why? Why now? What's changed?

 

“Rey means 'Light' in my grandfather's language,” he whispers, stroking her cheek. “The language the slaves spoke, on Tatooine. Luke taught me a few words.” He props her on his knee, adjusting his grip before continuing to climb. “Did you know that? I bet you didn't.” He reaches the first landing, gathering speed. “You had. The brightest mind I'd ever felt,” he says. “You were like. A star. Well, if stars had minds.” He glances down at her. “You know what I mean.”

 

At the top of the stairs is a collapsed archway, and beyond that, the ruins of a vast hangar. Half the ceiling is caved in. The twisted bodies of small fighters jut from the rubble, their bright yellow paint job peeking out from beneath a layer of grime. Kylo scans the wreckage for anything flyable. In the shade of half a ceiling, a few more or less intact looking fighters stand against the wall. One of them is a two-seater, meant to carry a gunner and a pilot back to back. Noticing with a pang that his sooty handprints have already soiled her white dress, Kylo sets Rey down carefully on the stone floor.

 

The ship is an antique. Pre-Clone Wars, by the looks of it. There's no real reason to think it'll still be operable, but Kylo has to think so, because it's his only kriffing hope. He runs his fingertips over the surface of one of the wings. The yellow paint is covered in carbon scoring, but the damage looks mostly superficial. Pinching the edge of his sleeve, he polishes the view shield in small circles with his forearm, doing his best to clear away the dust. With a grunt of effort, he pries the hatch open. The cockpit looks like it's in pretty good condition, all things considered. He plants his foot on the low, flat wing and climbs up into the pilot's seat. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the control stick, giving it an experimental squeeze. He throws the ignition switch, and the engine coughs, but doesn't start. Reseting the engine, he tries again. Again, no luck. Rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands, he squints down at the antique dials on the dashboard in front of him. There's a red and white gauge that looks troublingly low. Maybe the fuel cells are empty? He curses, banging his knee on the inside of the cramped cockpit. Of course, the controls are all in Nabooan. Idiot. He's going to have to fly this thing totally cold, and that's _if_ he can even get it running.

 

Ben was never any good with machines, and Kylo is no better. Machines are inscrutable. They don't project pain into the Force when they're in need of repair. And besides: It's been years since he's had to solve any of his own technical difficulties. He can fly well enough, he has good reflexes, but when something breaks down, he's at a loss. His lack of aptitude as a spacer would probably have been a much greater disappointment to Han Solo, he muses, if Ben hadn't also been a disappointment in so many other, more serious ways.

 

He jumps down from the cockpit, crouching beside Rey's body. If only he could find a way to wake her. For years, she made her living as a scavenger. She'd know these old ships inside and out. He cups her head in his hands, wincing at the feeling of the staples under his fingertips. Focusing as hard as he can, he tries again to reach her mind, but just as before, it's impossible. She's completely cut off from him. Cut off from the Force. Letting go of her head, he turns his back on her and hugs himself tightly, rocking his body forward and back. Now what? If he could just fix the ship, he thinks, then he could find someone to fix Rey. If he could just fix Rey, then she could fix the ship. He glances helplessly between the two, his breath beginning to shorten. There's no one here to tell him what the next step is, no one here to follow. Snoke's not dead, he knows, because Snoke can't be killed. He and Rey are trapped, alone, on this planet with him, unless Kylo can come up with some way to get them off of it. He folds himself in half, pressing his forehead against the stone floor. Useless. Can't even get a damn ship to start. His eyes blur with tears and he strikes his skull against the stone, seeing sparks. The vision-- Snoke's memories-- It's all coming back to him. The terrible truth he's learned, the terrible things he knows he has to do. He can't think about those things right now. If he starts thinking about them now, then he'll never get up off this floor. New rule: He doesn't have to face the vision until after Rey is safe. Until Rey is safe, none of it's real. Pushing himself up off the floor, he sits back on his heels and opens his eyes.

 

“These Nabooans, huh?” Han scoffs. “All style and no substance, ya know what I mean?” Kylo surges to his feet, instinctively reaching for his saber, but the broken hilt still won't ignite. He glances frantically around. Han Solo is standing in front of him. Not a spirit. Not a hologram. Han Solo.

 

Clipping the hilt to his belt, Kylo squares his shoulders and modulates his voice. “This won't work on me,” he says to the hangar bay. “You'll find I'm not so easily confused anymore. I know this isn't real.”

 

“What?” Han pulls a face. “You think I'm _him_ , don't you? You think I'm Snoke?” he asks, incredulous. “Talk about adding insult to injury.” He throws up his hands. He looks the same age as he did when Kylo last saw him, but his movements are lighter. He seems relaxed, unburdened. Like death did him some good.

 

“You're not here,” Kylo says through gritted teeth. “I killed you.”

 

Han sighs. “Yeah,” he nods, looking at his boots. “Yeah, you did.”

 

“You're not here,” Kylo repeats defiantly, looking the creature pretending to be Han Solo right in the eyes. He's about to turn his back on it. He's sure that as soon as he turns around, it'll be gone. But before he can stop himself, he's reaching towards it through the Force. The apparition reaches back, and Kylo's soul heaves at the touch. It may or may not be Han Solo, but whatever this thing is, it loves him.

 

“Snoke couldn't fake that,” says Han, his voice raspy with emotion. “Could he?”

 

The hangar bay is a spinning blur. Kylo doubles over, retching, but this time his stomach is already empty. A thin filament of saliva and bile hangs from his lip. “You're _not_ \--” he chokes. “You _can't_ be--” There's a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. It's Han, taking a step towards him. Kylo throws up his hands, attempting to repel him with the Force.

 

The rocks and debris at Han's feet go flying, but Han himself remains unmoved. “Not really here, remember?” he smiles.

 

Kylo claps both hands over his mouth and falls to his knees with a groan of anguish. His stomach is roiling, his mouth constantly filling with saliva. There's nothing left inside of him to vomit up, but his body keeps trying. He feels like his organs are being evacuated. Like the animal is cannibalizing itself. He retches again and again, his abdomen seizing up, spitting little plops of stomach acid onto the floor until there's really, truly nothing left. The saliva is sour, and viscous, and cold in his mouth. It coats the inside of this throat, making his voice sound low and thick. “I killed you,” he whispers.

 

Han crouches at Kylo's side, waiting for Kylo to look at him. When Kylo doesn't, he starts talking anyway. “When I was young,” he says, “I killed people over less. Stupid stuff. Money. Spice deals gone bad. That sort of thing. Now, I'm not saying that makes it alright.” He frowns. “It's _not_ alright. All I'm saying is...” He looks at the floor and makes a gruff, dismissive noise. “Hell, I don't know _what_ I'm saying. Forget I said anything. It doesn't matter right now.” Kylo stifles a sob. “Come on, kiddo,” Han says softly. “You've gotta pull yourself together, okay? Rey needs you.”

 

Kylo nods, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He's hallucinating. That's all. He's filthy, exhausted, dehydrated, and terrified. There's nothing extraordinary about it. He reaches up to grab a wing of the ship and hoists himself to his feet. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay. What do I do?” He looks down at Rey helplessly. “I've got to fix the ship,” he says. “Or we're stuck on this planet. But I don't know how.” Now he's asking the hallucination for tech support. Great. Fine. He steadies himself and lets go of the wing.

 

“Have you checked the compartment under the dash?” asks Han, peering past him. “There's usually a repair manual in there.”

 

“Right,” says Kylo, feeling stupid. With shaking limbs, he climbs back into the cockpit and hunches forward. He feels for a compartment under the dashboard. Sure enough, there's a crumbling paper booklet inside. He pulls it out, carefully spreading it open on his lap. “It's in Nabooan,” he groans. “Of course.”

 

“Well,” says Han, “try flipping it over.” Kylo flips it over. From the other side, the manual contains the same set of instructions, but in Basic. He leafs through it, careful of the brittle paper. A few pages in, there's a diagram of the dashboard with explanations of each of the gauges. He glances back and forth between the faded manual and the dusty display. It looks like he was right about the fuel cells being empty. Besides that, the engine light is on, which could mean any number of things. He drops his shoulders. He's tired of panicking. The constant hits of adrenaline leave him exhausted and numb. He just wants all of this to be over. Increasingly, he doesn't care how. “What does it say?” Han prompts.

 

“The fuel cells,” says Kylo. “They're empty.” He hops down from the cockpit and takes off his jacket, sweaty and caked with ashes, and ties it around his hips. His pale, spotted arms look like the cleanest part of him. They're alright, his limbs. He's going to miss them, he thinks. He's even going to miss the spots. He gestures towards the nearest one-person fighter. “Maybe I could pull some out of another ship, and put them in this one.” He frowns. “Do you think they would be compatible?”

 

“Probably,” Han shrugs, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “No reason for the Nabooans not to make them interchangeable. Thing is, you probably won't find any that aren't empty.”

 

“Why not?” Kylo snaps. Strangely, it's the sting of having his idea shot down, and not the fear of being trapped on this planet forever, that causes him to raise his voice.

 

Han looks apologetic. “You're in a hangar bay, pal,” he says. “You'd expect these ships to be charged up and ready to go. If they're not, it's not because somebody's been flying them around. This place looks like it's been abandoned for decades. Most fuel cells can't hold a charge that long. If this ship's full of duds, well... All of them are.”

 

Kylo's vision whites with rage. He reaches for his lightsaber, only to discover, yet again, that it's broken. Useless. He roars in frustration, hurling it at the ground. But the rush of anger passes instantly, leaving him even more wrung out and empty than before. He turns to Han, blinking back tears. “Do something!” he says. “Either help me, or-- Or give me what I deserve. Do _anything_. How can you just stand there like that?”

 

“I'm not standing here,” Han grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told you: I'm not here at all.” He seems defensive, embarrassed. Full of the same old lies and excuses. Kylo misses him so much he can't breathe.

 

Kylo reaches down to pick up his lightsaber, turning it over and over in his hands. The diatium chamber has cracked wide open, exposing the florescent power core that channels white light through the red focusing crystal. He licks his cracked lips, weighing the hilt in his palm. “When you left her,” he says, without looking up, “I swore I'd never forgive you. For years, I hated you for the way you abandoned her. I hated you so much, for so long, that in the end... I left her too.” He looks up, lips trembling. “What kind of sense does that make?”

 

“We both let her down,” says Han. “It's true. She deserved...” he struggles, his voice hoarse. “So much better.” Faltering only for a moment, he swiftly composes himself. “What's done is done,” he says. “But think about it this way: What would Leia want for you now? If she was in your place now, what would she do?” He smirks, his eyes twinkling with distant pain. “She'd save the tears for later, and she'd get Rey the hell out of this place.”

 

Kylo holds his breath, releasing it in a hard puff. The broken hilt is warm in his hand, the insulation fried. It's a stupid, dangerous idea. No sane spacer would try it. But it's exactly the kind of stupid, dangerous thing Han Solo would probably have gotten away with. He takes a step towards the fighter. “Do you think maybe I could...?” he starts to ask.

 

In the dash compartment, there's a compact tool kit. He withdraws the hydrospanner, heart racing and fingers buzzing with a kind painful giddiness. Ducking under the wing, he opens the power hatch and pulls out the long metal cylinder that houses the fuel cells. Twisting it open, he uses the hydrospanner to unscrew the cells from their sockets. Sure enough, the nanofluid inside the long, transparisteel phials looks cloudy and dull. Sitting down crosslegged on the floor, he spreads his tools out in front of him. Deconstructing the hilt of his lightsaber, he removes the power core from its shattered casing and lays it down gently. He holds the cracked red focusing crystal in his palm, taking a moment to savor its pulsating warmth. With a deep sigh, he tucks it into a pocket on his utility belt. He picks up the power core and opens it, careful not to spill a single drop of the glowing nanofluid inside. He unscrews the cloudy fuel cells one by one, distributing the fluid equally into each of them and watching it swirl around, permeating the whole. He screws them back up and waits, his forehead beading with fresh sweat. After a few minutes, the fuel cells are glowing. He screws them back into their sockets and closes the fuel cylinder. Standing up again, he slides it back into the chamber and seals the power hatch.

 

“Do you think this will work?” he asks, turning around. He's flushed and scared, almost proud of this stupid idea. His heart sinks. Han is gone. Idiot. Han was never here. He said as much himself, didn't he?

 

Kylo walks back around to the front of the fighter. He scoops up Rey and plants his boot on the wing, giving them a boost. Standing over the open cockpit, he lowers her into the gunner's seat and straps her in. He winces as her head falls forward, the safety harness cutting into her neck. Climbing into the pilot's seat, he fastens his own safety harness and pauses, kneading his thighs in apprehension. The fuel gauge is half-way in the white. The engine light is off. His hand hovers over the ignition switch. Maybe this will actually work, or maybe the ship will explode, killing both of them. Worst of all, maybe nothing will happen, and they'll be stuck here, just like before. He wishes their seats weren't back to back, so he could at least look at Rey. He flips the ignition switch, and the engine sputters to life. His heart soars. As he's reaching up to close the hatch, he notices a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Hang on, I just remembered something else I wanted to say,” says Han. He's got a hand on the wing, as if to stop the fighter from taking off. “So uh, this whole thing between you and Grand Moff Pretty Boy...” He lets go of the wing, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets and shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I hope it uh...” he makes a vague, trundling gesture, “works out, I guess. Not that I approve of him or anything.” He points emphatically. “Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying he's not scum. But gee, buddy. You sure don't have yourself a whole lotta options, do ya?”

 

“Thanks,” says Kylo. “I think.” His sinuses burn. “But it's already over. Hux hates me.”

 

“Well, it's none of my business,” says Han. “I just thought I'd... ya know.” He shrugs. Anguish scrunches his chin. “Good luck, kiddo.”

 

“You're not here,” says Kylo. “I'm imagining you. I'm losing my mind. What little I had.”

 

“Yeah,” Han concedes. “But still.”

 

Kylo closes the hatch and pressurizes the cockpit. When he looks through the view shield, the hallucination is gone. Now that he understands what all the labels mean, operating the fighter should be fairly straightforward. He taxis towards the mouth of the hangar bay, pulling back on the control stick and launching them from the cliff-top palace, high above a mirror-smooth lake. Sparkling blue waterfalls disappear below them as the fighter climbs higher and higher into the atmosphere, and Kylo's skull begins to throb from the rapid change of altitude.

 

The antique fighter handles wildly. Kylo grits his teeth, pulling back on the control stick as hard as he can. The metal clasps on Rey's harness are all rusted out, and the straps are starting to come lose. Idiot. He should have found her a helmet. Or something. He uses the Force to hold her skull still against the headrest of her seat so that it won't crack against the view shield as turbulence rattles the tiny craft. The animal won't stop complaining. There's nothing he can do for it right now. Anyway, the pain seems fitting. He's a black hole, a wound in the universe. Why shouldn't it feel this way? He punches in a set of coordinates, scarcely pausing to wonder whether they're still the right ones, and launches the ship into hyperspace, smiling as the stars turn into lines.

 

-

 

It's night where they land. The flashy blue speeder parked outside looks like a recent acquisition, but the abstract hematite sculpture in the garden is exactly the same as Kylo remembers it being. He walks the narrow packed-dirt path towards the front steps, balmgrass swaying around his ankles, and futility tries to brush some of the dust off of himself. He climbs the short steps up to the veranda. There are lights on inside, and voices. It sounds like someone's watching the holonet. Pinching his shoulder blades together, he reaches for the call button and waits, staring straight ahead, for someone to answer. The door slides open with a hiss. Lando seems tired and annoyed. He looks old, just like Han and Leia. Of course he does. Kylo isn't sure what else he expected, but it jolts him.

 

“Look here,” Lando says, “I already told you folks, I'm not interested in becoming a disciple of Mohra or whoever she is.” He leans an elbow against the door frame, gesturing dismissively with the opposite hand. “Now, I don't know how my name ended up on your list--”

 

“You said I could come here,” Kylo blurts.

 

Lando squints at him in confusion. “What?”

 

Kylo grimaces, driving his fingernails into his palms. “You said, if I was ever in trouble...” He lowers his head. “If it was something my parents couldn't help me with... You said no matter what!” When he looks up, it's straight into the barrel of a blaster.

 

“Ben?” Lando rasps, his mouth turning down at the corners. “What the hell are you doing here?” He looks Kylo up and down, his blaster arm faltering. “What happened to you?”

 

“I--” Kylo's gasps, his eyelids fluttering. “You said I could come here no matter what. Please.” He glances back towards the ship. “I need your help. It's not for me. It's for Rey.”

 

Lando takes a step forward, driving Kylo away form his home. “Who?” he asks.

 

“One of Luke's former students,” Kylo hurriedly explains. “She was a little girl. She's grown up now. I don't remember if you ever met her.” He shakes his head. “I don't remember a lot of things. The past isn't exactly. Real to me.” Lando's once-familiar presence in the Force is both searing and soothing, like Leia's was, but not as acute. He can do this. For Rey, he can withstand it. “Please,” he says. He kneels in the balmgrass, raising his hands into the air. “I won't hurt you,” he insists. “I'm unarmed.” Lando says nothing at first. He glances up and down the street, as though debating whether to holler for help from his neighbors. Everyone's probably sleeping. Fire crickets fill the air with their shrill song. He and Kylo are all alone in the yard.

 

“What about that?” asks Lando, pointing with his blaster. Kylo looks down at his utility belt. The red crystal dagger hangs from his hip. “Isn't that a weapon?”

 

“Oh,” Kylo frowns. “No, it's-- It's decorative, I guess.” He unsheathes it, offering it to Lando by the hilt. “Here. The crystal is valuable. Take it. As collateral.”

 

“Collateral for what?” asks Lando. “Ben, that's not how collateral works.”

 

“Oh,” says Kylo, wilting.

 

“Keep it,” Lando waves him off. He lowers his blaster, sighing. “Last I heard, Leia was going to meet up with you,” he says. “Sounded like a bad idea to me, but it was none of my business.” He peers down the broad street at the distant, twinkling lights of some large municipal building. “She never stopped believing you were... reachable.”

 

Kylo replaces the dagger. “I know.”

 

“Well?”

 

“We talked. It was... good.”

 

“Does she know where you are right now?”

 

Kylo pushes himself to his feet. His shins are damp with dew. “No. I had to leave, but I couldn't tell her where I was going. Please,” he implores. “I had to save Rey. Snoke hurt her. She needs help, she needs medicine, a place to lie down--”

 

“Okay, okay, okay.” Lando scrubs a hand over his face. “Lemme take a look at this Rey.”

 

“Thank you.” Kylo nods. He dashes over the to fighter and climbs up onto the wing. The darkness is growing thicker by the minute, Chandrila's pale violet moon disappearing behind the clouds. Lando stands silhouetted against the gray house. The holoprojector inside is still running, throwing out faint and constantly shifting lights. Unfastening Rey from her harness, Kylo scoops her up in his arms and hurries back across the lawn, her bare legs swinging in the misty air as he runs. Lando squints at Rey, struggling to parse what he's seeing through the darkness, perhaps looking for signs of injury. “Do you have bacta?” Kylo pants.

 

“Yeah,” says Lando. “Inside.” He raises the blaster again, pointing back at the house.

 

“Thank you,” says Kylo, taking a step towards the door. Lando stops him, aiming the blaster at his head. “Please,” says Kylo. “I understand why you're scared--”

 

Lando laughs. “Your punk ass doesn't scare me,” he says. He grabs Kylo roughly by the shoulder and presses the blaster to his temple. “Darth Vader himself didn't scare me,” he spits. Kylo seriously doubts this. He was always inclined to doubt a lot of the myths the heroes of the Rebellion liked to tell about themselves. But now is hardly the time to bring it up.

 

“This isn't about me,” he insists. The cold metal of the barrel stings the side of his face. “You don't have to forgive me, you don't have to like me. But Rey, Rey is innocent. Luke loved her, almost as a daughter. If Luke and Leia are still your friends--”

 

“Yeah, I got it.” Lando lets go, giving him a small shove. He walks towards the door, glancing over his shoulder at Kylo. “Well? Bring her inside.” Kylo rushes after him, the door closing automatically behind them.

 

The décor is not quite what Kylo remembers. It's toned down-- still expensive, but less overtly flashy. The holoprojector is still on in the main living area. There's some sort of sports program playing. Kylo remembers doing puzzles on the floor in front of that sofa-- or the other sofa, the one that used to be there --while the adults drank and laughed at the table. He can almost taste the clear Chandrilan lemonade they gave him. Lando leads him down a hallway towards the guest bedroom where Han and Leia used to stay whenever they'd come to visit, and his stomach threatens another round of vomiting. Instead: He ducks through the doorway and lowers Rey reverently onto the guest bed, arranging her limbs into what he hopes is a comfortable position. He takes a step back and meets Lando's eye. Wordlessly, Lando disappears through the doorway and returns with a standard medkit and a small waste basket, laying them at the foot of the bed. Kylo nods in gratitude, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. He thoroughly scrubs his hands and arms with a moist cleansing cloth, and tilts Rey's head to the side on the pillow, using another cloth to tentatively wipe at the base of her skull.

 

“Where's...” He won't say the words Aunt Toryn. “Where's your wife?”

 

Lando scowls. “Away on business,” he says gruffly. “She'll be back in a couple of days.”

 

“You're worried,” says Kylo, without looking up from Rey's wound. “For Toryn. You think I'd hurt her?” Lando flinches. “So why tell me when she'll be back?” Kylo asks. “Why not lie to protect her?”

 

“What's the point?” asks Lando. “You can just read my mind, can't you?”

 

“It's not like that,” says Kylo, gritting his teeth in frustration. “Why does everyone always think--?” He stops himself, sucking in a calming breath. “If I could do it so easily, why would I bother asking questions at all? Why would I have ever even bothered learning to speak?” He tosses the bloodied cloth into the waste basket, contemplating the steel staples.

 

“You tell me,” says Lando.

 

Kylo holds his open palm over the back of Rey's neck, using the Force to slowly pry the staples free of her swollen flesh. With the other hand, he uses a fresh cloth to dab away blood and puss. “You know I'm not really. _That_ different from you,” he mutters. “I am very strong with the Force but. I'm sure you're better than me at a lot of things. And it's not as though you aren't a part of the Force, too.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Lando pulls up a chair and sits down, blaster resting in his lap. “I heard it all from Luke. It surrounds us and binds us, I got it.”

 

Kylo deposits the bloodied staples into the plastic waste basket with a trio of clinks. He raises an eyebrow. “You don't sound very convinced.”

 

“It's not that I don't believe in the Force,” says Lando. “I just can't really see what it's ever done for _me_.”

 

“You're alive aren't you?” Kylo shrugs. “And you love your wife. And she loves you in return. That's all the Force is, really.” This is good, he thinks. Talking like this is good. A distraction from the reality of Rey's blood on his hands, her emptiness in the Force. His heart seizes with the thought that Lando is doing this-- sitting with him, talking him through it --on purpose. Kylo holds the sides of Rey's neck, studying the weeping incision. He's worried about using the Force to extract the implant so close to her brain stem. Manually, he thinks he'd have more control. “Do you have a scalpel?” he asks, looking up.

 

Lando rolls his eyes. “I have whatever comes in a basic household medkit.”

 

“So that's a no, then?” Kylo bites the inside of his cheek. His fingertips tingle, and he reaches for the red dagger. Oh Hux, he thinks. Hux, how did you know?

 

“What are you doing?” Lando jumps to his feet.

 

“The crystal,” says Kylo, wiping down the blade with a wet cloth. “It's Sarkian nova ruby. It's a naturally antimicrobial material. The person who gave it to me... He knew I would need it for something. But he didn't say what.” He holds his breath, trying to feel his way around the inside of the wound with his mind. It suddenly strikes him how insane this is. He's not a surgeon. He has no kriffing idea what he's doing. But the animal is strangely calm, it's tired arm sure and steady. Something tells him that what he's doing is right. It's promising him that if he can just get this damn thing out her her right now, then Rey will be fine.

 

Pressing his thumb to the base of the incision, he slips the dagger in, cutting through layers of tissue and puss. Lando stands over him, frozen in horror, as Kylo slowly, lovingly drives the blade in deeper until he hits something hard. Tilting the blade to peel back the skin, he uses his thumb and forefinger to extract the object. It's a smooth black pebble, no bigger than his thumbnail. He cocks his head to one side, rolling it around in the center of his palm.

 

“What are you waiting for?” Lando asks. “She's bleeding all over the place! Get some bacta in there and cover that up for kriffs sake!”

 

Kylo blinks at him, feeling himself slipping into a kind of light trance. “Wait,” he breathes. Those strange tendrils of power are gathering in the core of his body again and radiating out through his arms. Heat pools in his palms, blood rising to the surface and beading on his skin like bright red dew. The animal whimpers, reluctant to give up any of it's waning vitality, but he ignores it, pressing his hands to the back of Rey's neck and willing his lifeblood into the wound. When he opens his eyes, he's slumping off the mattress and Lando is catching him by the shoulders. He must have blacked out for a second. Lando helps him to his feet and he staggers away from the bed, his vision swimming.

 

“Amazing,” says Lando. “I didn't know you could do that.” Kylo blinks away the spots, following Lando's line of sight. Rey's neck is healed. Pinkish and swollen, but closed and healed. Kylo curls his fist around the black pebble, squeezing it as though he could grind it into powder in his hand. He reaches towards her in the Force, sobbing as her presence registers in his mind. The block is gone. Rey explodes into a his awareness like a star, sending Kylo reeling. “Her mind--” he gasps. “I can feel her mind.” Tears are pouring down his face, and for a moment, all is right-good-true and wonder-pure.

 

“Easy buddy,” Lando is saying. “Let her get some rest, alright?” He glances nervously at Rey. He felt it too. Her resurrection. No one could ignore such brilliance. Kylo nods convulsively. “Why don't you clean yourself up, and I'll lend you some sleep clothes,” says Lando, wrinkling his nose in disgust at Kylo's appearance.

 

Kylo allows himself to be led out of the guest room and across the hall towards the fresher. He feels like he's floating. Rey is safe, asleep, recovering. His mission is complete. It's a large and well appointed fresher, with chrome fixtures and hematite tiles. Reaching up to unfasten the silver ring from his hair, he studies his reflection in the mirror. He looks like a nightmare. He's covered in soot, and soil, and blood like a buried corpse that climbed up out of the ground. He can hear Lando rummaging around in the other room. He flashes his reflection a smile. There's black around his gums, and in the corners of his eyes, and yet he's never felt so good, so pure. Rey is safe. He has finally done something worthy. He is ready to die.

 

Lando is at his elbow, setting a towel and a bundle of clothes on the counter. “Just toss what you've got on down the chute,” he's saying. He frowns at the muddy footprints on the floor. “The boots, too. The laundry droid will deal with it. Just toss it all down.” He opens the chamber and turns on the sanistream, testing the temperature with his fingers. “There,” he says, stepping out of Kylo's way. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the fresher, as though about to say something further, before leaving and closing the door behind him.

 

Kylo does as he's told, stripping and stuffing his dirt-caked clothes down the laundry chute. Without sparing his reflection another glance, he steps under the sanistream, grunting in simultaneous pain and relief at the hot water against his stooped back. He opens a bottle of liquid soap, pouring it liberally over his head and scouring his hair and body. Tiny cuts all over his skin sting as he rubs the soap into them. He inhales the steam gratefully, slipping into a light meditative trance. His pale thighs turn blotchy and red under the boiling water. It's a nice body, he thinks. He's never given it its due. He stands there, quietly memorializing its many dark spots and pink scars, its sparse, downy hairs, its divots and ridges, until the water runs clear.

 

He turns off the sanistream and grabs the large gray towel Lando left for him, wincing as he pats himself down. Huge purple bruises are forming across his chest and shoulders, and along his ribcage. It looks like it should hurt a lot more than it does. Maybe, he thinks, the animal is somehow sparing from him the brunt of the pain. How kind of it. He wonders if the poor thing knows it's about to die.

 

Lando's sleep clothes are a little bit snug on him, but extremely soft and comfortable. He slips the silky black kimono over the dark blue shirt and pants, savoring the texture. His reflection looks exhausted, his skin red and dry from being scoured, but it's a vast improvement. He squeezes his wet hair with the towel, arranging it over his ears, and hangs the damp towel on a hook.

 

He floats down the hallway towards the living room. The holoprojector has been switched off, leaving the room in partial darkness. There's a small light on in the kitchen. It's one of those huge, open concept kitchens, with a granite breakfast counter and a conservator large enough to hide dead bodies in. Lando had done well for himself after the war. “All on the up and up,” Han had said during one of their many visits. Ben had scanned the black tile ceiling, trying to figure out what that meant.

 

Lando is sitting at the breakfast counter on a rotating bar stool, a bottle of liquor and two glasses filled with ice in front of him. “Sit down,” he says, pouring the liquor over the ice. Kylo sits, taking hold of the glass Lando slides his way. The metal rung around the bottom of the bar stool is cool and smooth against the arches of his bare feet. “It's Corellian rum,” says Lando. “Drink up. It's good for you.”

 

“Thank you,” Kylo says softly, bringing the glass to his lips. He doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but he figures the least he can do is try to be polite. He remembers the nights they spent here after Han had left them. He remembers Leia sitting at this counter with Lando, and Lando covering her hand with his own. Ben on the floor, pretending to work on puzzles, wishing Leia could have married Lando instead. Wishing Lando could have been his father. Han's bitterness when all his old friends took Leia's side in the separation. His angry voice over the comm when Lando called him a coward.

 

“You know when I first met your father,” says Lando, “we were practically kids.” He takes a sip of his rum, the ice tinkling as he lifts his glass. Kylo stares into one of the shadowy corners of the living room, holding his breath. “We did a lot of terrible things, Ben. Things I'm not proud of. We hurt people. Killed people. It wasn't that we relished it or anything, but that was the world we lived in. Spice is a dirty business. No one comes out of it without regrets.” He sighs, squinting into the darkness. “But we both came out of it. We both made something of ourselves. Han though, he never really grew up. That was the difference between him and me. He was a great man, at times, but he wasn't exactly a good one. And he never stopped running away from his problems. Now, I don't deserve Toryn. And Han? He didn't deserve Leia. But what you did to him? He didn't deserve that either.”

 

Kylo puts down his glass. “I--”

 

“Shut up,” says Lando. He takes another sip. “You wanna be anything to anybody now? After what you did? You get used to shutting up. There are still a few people left in this galaxy who love your punk ass. So you take what they're willing to give you, and you shut the hell up.” Kylo nods. He knows he can't be anything to anybody now, but Lando's advice warms him. If only it really were as simple as shutting up. If only he didn't have this grim mission in front of him, with nothing to look forward too but death. “You can sleep on the sofa,” says Lando. “I'll comm your mother--”

 

“No!” says Kylo, almost spitting his drink. “You can't,” he gasps. “Please. She can't know where I am. Not yet.” Lando looks dubious. Kylo rotates his seat to face him. “You said you'd help me, if it was something my parents couldn't help me with. You promised me that.” He clutches the glass with both hands in his lap. “This is something my parents can't help me with,” he says quickly, almost tripping over the words in his desperation.

 

Lando shakes his head and downs the rest of his rum. “Drink it all,” he says, getting up from the bar stool. “It'll help you sleep.” He shuffles off down the hallway, disappearing into the shadows. Kylo hears his bedroom door open and close. Silence falls over the house.

 

The rum leaves Kylo pleasantly blurry and graceless. He tumbles onto the sofa with a muffled _oof_ , forgetting to be careful of his bruises. Adjusting his position, he lays his head on the armrest and closes his eyes. What a miracle it is, to be clean and warm. He should have taken the time to enjoy this more, when he had the chance. But then, he thinks, in petulant self-pity, he never did have the chance. He stretches his consciousness into the Force, using Rey's Light as an anchor. He knows what he has to do. He hoped maybe the alcohol would dull the pain. No such luck. Tears are already coming, and he hasn't even started yet.

 

He reaches for his bond with Hux. Hux's mind stirs, unconsciously reaching back. He knows severing it without Hux's help will send them both into psychic shock. Shaking, he grabs it by the roots, and pulls. A cry of agony starts in his throat but he stifles it, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Snoke helped him tear out all his bonds the last time. He doesn't know how to do it alone.

 

_Kylo?_

 

He freezes. Phantom fingers move across his curved back, sending ripples of pleasure through his tired body. _Go away_ , he sends. _I don't want you anymore_.

 

 _Liar_ , Hux sneers. Kylo keens, pressing his mouth to the inside of his elbow as the fingers tease his belly, climbing up his chest towards his face. _I'm coming for you_ , Hux sends. _And once I have you, I won't let you get away again._

 

 _Hux please_ , Kylo sobs. _You can't want me_. _No one can want me_.

 

 _Why not?_ Hux asks, wounded. All faux-threatening pretense gone.

 

Kylo sits up on the sofa, rubbing his eyes. He remembers sitting in this very room, on the old sofa, playing games and riddles with Uncle Lando and sipping clear lemonade out of a red plastic cup. “It's an old pirate folk tale,” Lando had said, a drink in his hand and a glint in his eye. Ben couldn't always follow Lando's parables and stories, but he liked the feeling they created in the Force when he told them. “It's called The Ship of Sathora. There was a spacer named Sathora, and she had this old ship. And she loved that hunk of junk, almost as much as your dear old father loves the Falcon. But it was always breaking down and needing repairs, and in the course of her travels, she was always having to replace the various parts. By the time she retired, every single part of the ship had been replaced. But it looked the same, and no one could really tell the difference. So here's the riddle, Ben:” Lando had paused for drama, taking a sip of his drink. “Was it still the same ship?”

 

“I don't get it,” Han had said, standing behind the sofa with his arms crossed.

 

“There's no right answer,” Lando had rolled his eyes. “It's just supposed to make you think.”

 

“About what?”

 

“It's about the nature of identity,” Aunt Toryn had supplied, while she sat at the counter making a salad. “What makes The Ship of Sathora Sathora's ship? Is it the parts, or is it the arrangement of the parts? Or maybe it's the journey Sathora took in it. All the memories she has of traveling.”

 

Only now, at the end, does Kylo understand the purpose of the story. He looks down at his body in the darkness. At this point, he figures he's probably made up of completely different cells from the cells that once made up Ben Solo. But does that make them different people? Was the ship the same ship?

 

 _Kylo_ , Hux is sending. _I'll find you. And when I do, I promise, everything will be alright_.

 

 _My Love_ , Kylo whispers.

 

He's not ready to die.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued?


End file.
